Nothing in the world but the two of them, and the sweet music of the dead. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to sing, no thought of the cars passing by or the trickle of customers ducking in and out of the Jamaican restaurant, no prickle of self-consciousness to swallow her voice up.
Qebhet's mind was drifting on the music when Much touched his forehead to hers, drawing her back to him. His eyes were closed and there was something she recognised all too well in his expression, in his whispered request: not quite peaceful, but striving towards peace, wanting it with a longing.
And so she sang the words, just for him, making her voice a soft caress. "Don't buy sugar/You just have to touch my cup/You're my sugar/It's sweet when you stir it up/When I'm taking sips from your tasty lips/Then the honey fairly drips/You're confection, goodness knows/Honeysuckle rose..." Eli launched into a sax solo then, a stream of silky liquid notes, and Qebhet hummed along to it for Much's benefit.