The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

music.
    She’d be pleased, Brenna thought as she skimmed her finger over the scarred black wood, that someone was making music in her house again.
    Idly, she scanned the sheet music that Shawn forever left scattered over the top of the piano. He was always writing a new tune, or taking out an old one to change something. She frowned in concentration as she studied the squiggles and dots. She wasn’t particularly musical. Oh, she could sing out a rebel song without making the dog howl in response, but playing was a different kettle of fish altogether.
    Since she was alone, she decided to satisfy her curiosity. She set her toolbox down again, chose one of the sheets, and sat down. Gnawing her lip, she found middle C on the keyboard and slowly, painstakingly, picked out the written notes, one finger at a time.
    It was lovely, of course. Everything he wrote was lovely, and even her pitiful playing couldn’t kill the beauty of it completely.
     
     
    He’d added words to this one, as he often did. Brenna cleared her throat and attempted to match her voice to the proper note.
     
    When I’m alone in the night, and the moon sheds its tears, I know my world would come right if only you were here. Without you, my heart is empty of all but the memories it keeps. You, only you, stay inside me in the night while the moon weeps.
     
    She stopped, sighed a little, as there was no one to hear. It touched her, as his songs always did, but a little deeper this time. A little truer.
    Moon tears, she thought. Pearls for Lady Gwen. A love that asked, but couldn’t be answered.
    “It’s so sad, Shawn. What’s inside you that makes such lonely music?”
    As well as she knew him, she didn’t know the answer to that. And she wanted to, had always wanted to know the key to him. But he wasn’t a motor or machine that she could take apart to find the workings. Men were more complicated and frustrating puzzles.
    It was his secret, and his talent, she supposed. All so internal and mysterious. While her skills were . . . She looked down at her small, capable hands. Hers were as simple as they came.
    At least she put hers to good use and made a proper living from them. What did Shawn Gallagher do with his great gift but sit and dream? If he had a lick of ambition, or true pride in his work, he’d sell his tunes instead of just writing them and piling them up in boxes.
    The man needed a good kick in the ass for wasting something God had given him.
    But that, she thought, was an annoyance for another day. She had work of her own to do.
    She started to get up, to reach for her toolbox again, when a movement caught the corner of her eye. She straightened like a spike, mortified at the thought of Shawn coming back—he was always forgetting something—and catching her playing with his music.
    But it wasn’t Shawn who stood in the doorway.
    The woman had pale gold hair that tumbled around the shoulders of a plain gray dress that swept down to the floor. Her eyes were a soft green, her smile so sad it broke the heart at first glance.
    Recognition, shock, and a giddy excitement raced through Brenna all at once. She opened her mouth, but whatever she intended to say came out in a wheeze as her pulse pounded.
    She tried again, faintly embarrassed that her knees were shaking. “Lady Gwen,” she managed. She thought it was admirable to be able to get out that much when faced with a three-hundred-year-old ghost.
    As she watched, a single tear, shiny as silver, trailed down the lady’s cheek. “His heart’s in his song.” Her voice was soft as rose petals and still had Brenna trembling. “Listen.”
    “What do you—” But before Brenna could get the question out, she was alone, with only the faintest scent of wild roses drifting in the air.
    “Well, then. Well.” She had to sit, there was no help for it, so she let herself drop back down to the piano bench. “Well,” she said again and blew out several strong breaths until her heart stopped thundering against her rib cage.
    When she thought her legs would hold her again, she decided it was best to tell the tale to someone wise and sensible and understanding. She knew no one who fit those requirements so well as her own mother.
    She calmed considerably on the short drive home. The O’Toole house stood back off the road, a rambling jigsaw puzzle of a place she herself had helped make so. When her father got an idea for a room into his head, she was more than pleased to dive into the