Free Sing Sweet Nightingale by Erica Cameron Page B

claps her hands. “Frank, that’s fantastic!”
    “Can you imagine what this could do for the company? My designs might actually be seen by the people who could put them to use!”
    While my father’s firm handles all kinds of projects, his personal specialty is restoration and “green” construction. He has a concept for low-cost, energy-efficient smart houses that he’s been trying to get out into the world for years. If this Lawson guy really has the pull my father thinks he does, I’m starting to get why he’s so excited about meeting him.
    “Tomorrow?” My mother twirls the dishtowel, her lips pursed. “What to make, what to make…”
    They start planning their dinner party, so I head back to my book. Before I get far, my father calls to me.
    “Mari?” I glance over my shoulder, but he’s standing there opening and closing his mouth like a fish. His gaze flicks to my mother before he takes a breath and lets the words rush out. “Well, do you think tomorrow you could—”
    “Frank!” my mother hisses, slapping him with the dishtowel. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
    His face flushes. “I wasn’t going to—”
    “ Frank !” Her eyes blaze, and my father backs down fast.
    “Uh, never mind, Mari,” he mumbles, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”
    My mother’s glare sharpens, and she spins, her ponytail almost whipping my father in the face before she stalks back into the kitchen.
    For a second, we both stand there staring after her, but then my father glances at me and away, his face flushing darker red.
    “I am sorry, Mariella,” he says, his voice quiet and his eyes downcast.
    I wait until he looks up, then shrug before walking back to my books. It can’t be an easy thing to explain to strangers why your only child refuses to say hello when she otherwise appears perfectly normal.
    Settling back onto the window seat and opening my book, I make myself a promise. I will act as normal as possible for my father as long as he doesn’t expect me to speak. Helping my parents out is one thing, but a famous architect and his grandson aren’t worth breaking my promise to Orane.

    Summer is usually one of my favorite seasons. Not because of the warm breezes or the flowers, but because I like how the days seem to melt away. It makes the time between visits to Orane’s world feel shorter.
    Today, I take back everything I ever said about summer days passing quickly.
    Today is dragging .
    Orane warned me not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. I can’t help the question burning through my brain—is tonight the night?
    “How about it, Mari?” My mother smiles at me as we clear away the dinner dishes.
    I stare at her, waiting for an explanation. I completely tuned out during the meal, so if this is a follow-up to something she said earlier, I missed it.
    Her smile fades a little, but she shakes herself out of it quickly. “Scrabble, honey. It’s been a little while since we played. Do you have the energy for a game tonight?”
    Oh. I nod, and her smile regains its glow.
    Every family has their traditions. Scrabble is one of ours. We played so often, we wore out boards and rubbed the letters off tiles. We got so good the tiles ran out too fast and the board was too small, so my father built us a custom set. Three hundred handcrafted tiles and a double-size board on a spinning base. It’s dark wood and bronze accents, and it’s one of my favorite things in this house. Third to my nightingale and my mother’s upright piano.
    The game progresses as it always does. My parents argue over spelling and meaning, constantly thumbing through a well-worn Scrabble dictionary to settle the more intense disagreements. I like listening to them, but for me, the game isn’t exclusively about winning. It’s about making sure some of my words have meaning. At least once every game, I play words that can serve as messages to my parents.
    A few minutes into the game, I spot an opening and play my first