“You can’t hear the music,” Gizelle pointed out. She realized the thoughtlessness of her statement at once and her eyes went large. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Conall said grimly. “But other people can still enjoy it. Boston has some renowned orchestras.”
“Did you go to school in Boston?” Gizelle asked desperately.
Conall tried not to wince and failed. “I went to school in New York,” he said gently. “Have you heard of Juilliard?”
She shook her head, face brightening until he went on.
“It’s probably the most famous school for music in the world. I was in my last year when... I lost my hearing.”
“You couldn’t finish,” Gizelle guessed reluctantly.
Conall laughed humorlessly and it didn’t have nearly the effect that his previous laugh had; Gizelle flinched.
“I did, actually,” he explained. “I took a semester off to learn sign language and lip reading and came back to complete a degree in composition. The faculty...” felt sorry for me, he didn’t say. “They were flexible about the application of my previous credits.”
“Composition,” Gizelle said thoughtfully. “You made up music that you couldn’t hear?”
“I could play it, too,” Conall said. “I performed a guitar concerto for my final presentation. I could feel the vibrations to keep me in time, and the rest is just finger memory and... trust.”
The smile he’d been trying to keep on his face felt brittle. “I got a Grawemeyer award for that piece,” he said as lightly as he could.
Gizelle was looking at him with sorrow and guilt and confusion, tangling the end of her braid in her hands, but Conall didn’t want any of those things.
“It’s a big deal,” he felt obligated to explain. “An important prize in the music industry.” And he’d gotten it out of pity.
“I’m... this was a terrible idea.” Gizelle abruptly stood. “I’m not good at this. And I hate the beach. I’m sorry.”
Conall, watching her flee across the hot sand, wondered if he should count it a victory that she hadn’t shifted before she ran away this time.
He lay back in the sand, feeling defeated. He knew this was his own fault. He was terrible company. And tragedy did not make good courtship.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, his elk scolded him. Get up! Pursue her!
Conall remained stubbornly lying in the sand. And scare her further away? What would we do if we caught her? Put her in a cage?
She wants to be caught, his elk insisted.
Not by me, Conall was dismally sure.
Chapter 25
Gizelle looked at her feet critically.
The nail polish that Laura had put on was starting to chip. She had three beautiful, red-tipped toes and four that were only half red, and the rest only had tiny flecks of color.
Her fingernails were no better.
She could at least scrape some of the flecks away, so they were all the same color again, and she had done so with one entire hand when the door behind her opened.
“What are you doing out here?” Conall asked, as he settled on the opposite side of the step from her. He was so gorgeous in the sunrise, all gold like a lion, and his clothes were always so fine. Gizelle desperately wanted to see if his skin was as soft and velvety as it looked and it made her breath come quickly just thinking about it.
“Jenny reminded me that I shouldn’t go into people’s rooms without asking,” Gizelle explained.
“It’s... generally polite not to.”
Gizelle looked carefully at his face. He spoke so neutrally. Was he saying that she shouldn’t have come in yesterday? He was squinting into the sun at her, so it was hard to tell what he was thinking.