Free Earth Angel by Siri Caldwell Page A

carvings or mother-of-pearl inlay; others were unadorned, elegant in their simplicity.
    “This monster is the one we’re dragging to the beach.” Abby ran her hand lovingly over the gleaming cherry and maple. It was not dramatically bigger than the harp she played at the spa, maybe between five and six feet tall, but it had a lot more decoration. Nearly every surface was covered in swirling Celtic knots accented with—aack—gold leaf. And the most striking thing about the harp was the carved dragon that emerged from the wood like a gargoyle, clutching the pillar at the front.
    “I have never seen a harp like that.” She’d never even imagined a harp like that. It should have been the first thing she noticed when she walked in the room. She ran her hand over the dragon’s scales. The workmanship was amazingly detailed. “Where did you find this?”
    “I met the luthier at a summer music festival.” Abby patted the dragon on the head. “Do you want to get going or can I introduce you to the others?”
    “We have lots of time.” Anything Abby wanted to do was fine with her. It wasn’t like the wedding would start without the harpist…er, harper…what the heck, without the musician…and anyway, they really did have plenty of time. She had made a point of being early.
    Abby turned to the harp closest to the door. “This is the one I use at the spa, of course. It has gorgeous resonance, which is perfect for meditative music, although the sound can get muddy when I play fast.” She ran her index finger up the strings and a blur of notes filled the air. “The one I’m playing tonight has a tighter feel.”
    She went from harp to harp, pointing out differences in tone that Gwynne didn’t have the ear to appreciate, never mentioning anything she didn’t like about any particular harp. Despite the sheer number of harps she owned, it was clear she loved each one.
    “Listen to this one.” Abby sat on a folding chair and rested a diminutive harp between her thighs. She played a lullaby that rung like crystal raindrops, clear and high-pitched. “It’s fun, even though it’s only twelve strings, which is useless. You can’t get any low notes when the strings are so short.” Reluctantly she set the harp on the floor and gazed at it longingly. “I rescued it from a client’s neighbor’s basement. Stringed instruments lose their tone if you abandon and ignore them. But the richness is starting to come back.” She reached down and plucked a few more notes. “I should get my stuff together so we can go.”
    “No rush,” Gwynne said. She could listen to her play all day.
    “I don’t want to be late. What time is it?” Abby checked her watch. “Oh, we have plenty of time. I could give you a tour of the rest of the apartment, if you want.”
    She’d rather listen to her play, but she supposed she could do that at work. Resigned, she followed dutifully through the kitchen, the bathroom, and to the door of the one room she most didn’t need to see: the bedroom. While Abby waltzed in, Gwynne hesitated in the doorway. A polite glance revealed a sewing machine on a desk, a bed she averted her eyes from, and a wall lined with a series of framed charcoal drawings of angels.
    “You collect angels,” she observed neutrally. Lots of people collected angels, she reminded herself. It didn’t mean anything.
    “I know, a harper who collects angels. What a surprise, right?”
    Gwynne didn’t want to enter any farther into the room, but she also didn’t want Abby to think she was uncomfortable coming in. She could act cool. It wasn’t like she’d never been in a woman’s bedroom before. She strolled over to the drawings to examine them more closely. The angels were all gossamer, their shapes suggested by a few areas of shading and smudged lines that made them disappear into the paper, barely there. They were simple, but they radiated raw emotion: Wistfulness. Compassion. Pure joy.
    “Did you draw