There were secret parts of Rosie Sam would never get tired of, secret sounds just for him, muffled into the pillow half the time, to keep them secret, and keep the others from hearing. The walls were thick, but not thick enough to hold a scream or a loud moan, and that was a part of their love he loved no less than any other, the withholding of lust-song as their bodies played its rhythm.

Sometimes in day-time, when it was quiet and private enough, he'd touch a secret beneath the fall of her hair, up on the back of her neck, or brush a hidden moan on her throat, a special note on the inside of her fingers. She'd sigh and smile and kiss a secret pressed against his collarbone, and for a moment the song was there, even as it waited in their bedroom for them to return to it.

In time, our of this ancient magic, came forth children, and their new songs, far beyond the glory of their first.