A tall man stood up on a chair and gave a whistle that would have cut through a bigger crowd than this one. When everyone was silent, he welcomed us, said a few words of thanks to various people responsible for the Tumbleweed.

"Now," he said, "I know that you all know the Scallywags…" He bent down and picked up a bodhran. He sprayed the drumhead with a small water bottle and then spread the water around with a hand as he spoke with a studied casualness that drew attention. "Now the Scallywags have been singing here since the very first Tumbleweed—and I happen to know something about them that you all don't."

"What's that?" someone shouted from the crowd.

"That their fair singer, Sandra Hennessy, has a birthday today. And it's not just any birthday."

"I'll get you for this," a woman's voice rang out. "You just see if I don't, John Martin."

"Sandra is turning forty today. I think she needs a birthday dirge, whatd' you all think?"

The crowd erupted into applause that quickly settled into anticipatory silence.

"Hap-py birthday." He sang the minor notes of the opening of the "Volga Boatmen" in a gloriously deep bass that needed no mike to carry over the crowd, then hit the bodhran once with a small double-headed mallet. THUMP.

"It's your birthday." THUMP.

"Gloom and doom and dark despair,

"People dying everywhere.

"Happy birthday." THUMP. "It's your birthday."

Then the rest of the room, including Samuel, started to sing the mournful tune with great cheer.

There were well over a hundred people in the room, and most of them were professional musicians. The whole restaurant vibrated like a tuning fork as they managed to turn the silly song into a choral piece.

Once the music started, it didn't stop. Instruments came out to join the bodhran: guitars, banjos, a violin, and a pair of Irish penny whistles. As soon as one song finished, someone stood up and started another, with the crowd falling in on the chorus.

Austin had a fine tenor. Tim couldn't sing on pitch if his life depended upon it, but there were enough people singing that it didn't matter. I sang until our pizza arrived, then I ate while everyone else sang.

Finally, I got up to refill my soda, and by the time I returned, Samuel had borrowed a guitar and was at the far end of the room leading a rousing chorus of a ribald drinking song.

The only one left at our table was Tim.

"We've been deserted," he said. "Your Dr. Cornick was summoned to play, and Austin's gone out to the car to get his guitar."

I nodded. "Once you get him singing" — I waved vaguely to indicate Samuel—"you're in for it for a while."

"Are the two of you dating?" he asked, rolling the Parmesan jar between his hands before setting it down.

I turned to look at Samuel, who was singing a verse alone. His fingers flew on the neck of the borrowed guitar and there was a wide grin on his face.

"Yes," I said, though we weren't really. And wouldn't now. It was less complicated just to say yes rather than explain our situation.

"He's a very good musician," Tim said. Then, his voice so quiet I knew I wasn't supposed to hear him, he murmured, "Some people have all the luck."

I turned back to him and said, "What was that?"

"Austin's a pretty good guitarist, too," he said quickly. "He tried to teach me, but I'm all thumbs." He smiled like it didn't matter, but the skin around his eyes was taut with bitterness and envy.

How interesting, I thought. How could I use this to pry information from him?

"I know how you feel," I confided, sipping my pop. "I was practically raised with Samuel." Except that Samuel had been an adult several times over. "I can plunk a bit on the piano if someone forces me. I can even sing on key—but no matter how hard I worked at it" — not very—"I could never sound as good as Samuel. And he never even had to practice." I let a sharp note linger in my voice, a twin to the jealousy he'd revealed. "Everything is so easy for that man."

Zee had told me not to help him.

Uncle Mike told me to stay out of it.

But then I'd never been very good at listening to orders—ask anyone.

Tim looked at me—and I saw him register me as a real person for the first time. "Exactly," he said—and he was mine.

I asked him where he'd learned Welsh, and he visibly expanded as he answered.

Like a lot of people who didn't have many friends, his social skills were a little lacking, but he was smart—and under all that earnest geekiness, funny. Samuel's vast knowledge and charm had made Tim close up and turn into a jerk. With a little encouragement, and maybe the two glasses of beer he'd drunk, Tim relaxed and quit trying to impress me. Before I knew it, I found myself forgetting for a while that I had ulterior motives and got into a spirited argument about the tales of King Arthur.

"The stories came out of the courts of Eleanor of Aquitaine. They were to teach men how to behave in a civilized fashion," Tim said earnestly.

A caller with more volume than tone on the other side of the room called out, "King Louie was the king of France before the Revolu-shy-un!"

"Sure," I said. "Cheat on your husband and your best friend. The only way to find love is through adultery. All good civilized behavior."

Tim smiled at my quip, but had to wait as the whole room responded, "Weigh haul away, haul away Joe."

"Not that," he said, "but that people should strive to better themselves and to do the right thing."

"Then he got his head cut off, it spoiled his constitushy-un!"

I had to hurry to slip in before the chorus. "Like sleep with your sister and beget your downfall?"

"Weigh haul away, haul away Joe."

He gave a frustrated huff. "Arthur's story isn't the only one in the Arthurian cycle or even the most important. Parcival, Gawain, and half a dozen others were more popular."

"Okay," I said. We were getting our timing down now and I started to tune out the music completely. "I'll give you the urge to do heroic deeds, but the pictures they painted of women were right along the lines the Church held. Women lead men astray, and they will betray you as soon as you give them your trust." He started to say something but I was in the middle of a thought and didn't pause. "But it's not their fault—that's just what women do as a result of their weaker natures." I knew better actually, but it was fun to rant.

"That's a simplification," he said hotly. "Maybe the popular versions that were retold in the middle twentieth century ignore most of the women. But just go read some of the original authors like Hartman von Aue or Wolfram von Eschenbach. Their women are real people, not just reflections of the Church's ideals."

"I'll give you Eschenbach," I conceded. "But von Aue, no. His Iweine is about a knight who gave up adventuring because he loved his wife—for which he must atone. So he goes out and rescues women to regain his proper manly state. Ugh. You don't see any of his women rescuing themselves." I waved my hand. "And you can't escape that the central Arthurian story revolves around Arthur, who marries the most beautiful woman in the land. She sleeps with his best friend—thereby ruining the two greatest knights who ever lived and bringing about the downfall of Camelot, just as Eve brought about the downfall of mankind. Robin Hood was much better. Maid Marian saves herself from Sir Guy of Gisbourne, then goes out and slays a deer and fools Robin when she disguises herself as a man."

He laughed, a low attractive sound that seemed to take him as much by surprise as it did me. "Okay. I give up. Guinevere was a loser." His smile slowly died as he looked behind me.

Samuel put his hand on my shoulder and leaned close. "Everything all right?"