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[follyofyouth]

Evening on the island and Laura hasn't yet figured a way outta this joint. It had taken a couple days before the idea of it had braced her but good. She's better off here, at least for the moment, she knows that; there aren't many better ways to lie dormy than to disappear completely, but this wasn't what she had in mind for a clean sneak when she

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[aminorkey]

Peter's still wandering and the music almost calls out to him. Perhaps he's not fully settled, but he's not about to yell at some poor kitten for existing anymore (and he'd come close to doing such a thing). Now, as it happens, he just watches the young girl at the piano.

[follyofyouth]

Some gee's got his eyes on her as she plays, but that's just the kind of thing Laura's accustomed to. She likes it better that way, playing for an audience, singing for a crowd, her own peepers lowered and flickering up from time to time in a display of demure longing. She plays the part to the hilt, the same subtle perfection she wrings from the piano, or so she likes to think. It's not hard. It's a good enough show almost to get her wishing Brendan was there; sometimes it's more fun when the game's a little tougher.

"Follow my lead," she sings softly. "Oh, how I need someone to watch over me." And then the tune's coming to a halt and she looks up with a smile, eyes widening like she's only just caught sight of the fella there. Blinks once, twice, and lowers her head again. "I didn't know anyone else was around."

[aminorkey]

Peter crosses his arms and leans back against the doorway, watching her curiously. Her technique is good, but simple. She could benefit from more lessons. "What were you playing?" Music with lyrics is still something he's not quite a fan of. Not yet.

[follyofyouth]

"'Someone to Watch Over Me.'" Laura smiles, leaning back a little to look up at him, curious. She's never much liked the kids her own age, never really learned how to play well with others, see, but grown-ups she can make nice with. Mostly. At least, until they prove boring. Most people are a dime a hundred. "Call me old-fashioned, but there's nothing quite like Gershwin in the evening."