Without a Summer by Mary Robinette Kowal Page B

from where Jane had left it by the door. He groaned softly as he stood. Placing a hand behind his hips, Vincent leaned backwards and cracked his spine. “I am getting old, Muse.”
    “You are younger than I am by a full year.” She took his arm, feeling every one of her thirty years, as they left the ballroom. “What must Melody think of us if you think yourself old?”
    “We are ancient, infirm creatures on the edge of our graves.”
    As they walked toward the front of the house, the sound of a pianoforte led them to the music room. The tune was a simple one, adequately played but without the authority of a true musician. Melody’s voice rose above it in a clear, sweet accompaniment.
    Jane tilted her head, listening. “It sounds as though she has been practising.”
    “She may not have had anything else to do this week.” Vincent grimaced and buttoned his coat. “I dislike neglecting her so much after inviting her to come to London, and yet…”
    “And yet, we have our work to do.” Jane squeezed his arm. “She is my responsibility, not yours.”
    Vincent stopped her in the hall and looked down with a serious cast to his features. “Do not think that I consider her less of a sister than if she were my own.”
    “Like the one you were afraid to see?” Jane teased him, but regretted her words the moment they were out of her mouth, as Vincent winced, turning his face to the wall. “I am sorry, my love.”
    He shook his head, staring at the bust of a cupid sculpted into a nook and traced a line down its nose with his finger. The muscles in his jaw bunched. Letting his breath out in a huff, Vincent said, “It is not Penny that I am afraid of. Or rather … not precisely her. I am afraid that my father sent her, and I do not know why.” He laughed rather desperately, gripping the cherub’s wing.
    Jane stood on her toes to kiss Vincent on the cheek. “He has no hold over you.”
    “No.” He let go of the statue. “So, shall we rescue your sister from ennui?”
    A burst of laughter came out of the music room. Jane raised a brow. It was not only Melody, but a gentleman laughing. “I wonder if we need to.”
    They walked down the hall and entered a sunny room, which contained not only a pianoforte, but also a harp and a cello. Melody sat at the keys with the sun shining behind her, making her hair fairly glow.
    A young gentleman leaned against the pianoforte, resting his elbows upon the cloth thrown over it. He was a tall, slender man, with a riot of red hair, which sparkled in the sunlight like ruby to Melody’s gold. His blue eyes were a match for Lady Stratton’s, though a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles framed them. His clothes, which showed all the signs of an excellent tailor, were splashed with mud. There could be little doubt that this was Alastar O’Brien, eldest son of Lord Stratton.
    As the Vincents entered, he straightened, the casual nature of his posture altering to something more formal, but none the less attractive for that. “Good afternoon?”
    Vincent offered him a short bow and made the appropriate introductions. Jane could never get used to being introduced as Lady Vincent, but she smiled and curtsied. “I see you have already met my sister.”
    “I was drawn to the music. It was quite improper, but when one hears a muse, one must follow.” He was quite the gallant.
    Looking up through her eyelashes becomingly, Melody said, “I should say that the one who inspires the music is the muse, rather than the one who merely plays it.”
    “It depends, I suppose, on where one finds inspiration,” Mr. O’Brien said.
    “I have often felt the same way, sir.” Vincent suppressed a smile and almost winked at Jane.
    Mr. O’Brien gestured at the dirt on his trousers. “Forgive my attire. I have only just arrived in town, and my parents did not tell me that we had guests.”
    “Ah. That is because we are not guests.” Jane paused, seeing that he did not understand. “Your parents have