After Kaylee’s talk with her mother, and most folks realising they were too enervated to be in the mood for frivolity, the party was put off for another day, much to Mal’s relief. He caught Ellie smiling at him once or twice, and wondered if she was likely to suggest they all gather around the piano to chase the rain away, but luckily for him she refrained.

“You’ve got a good voice,” Freya whispered, leaning against him as they gathered platefuls of food from the long table set against the wall. “I like it when you sing for me.”

He blushed a little, looking around to make sure no-one else heard. He should have known she’d pluck that tasty little titbit out of his brain. “I don’t sing.”

“Yes, you do. When we make love. That’s singing.”

He looked down into her eyes, knowing he muttered endearments and other odd curse words while they were in the throes of passion. “That what you think?”

“Of course. And you’ve sung lullabies to me before.” She moved even closer, her warmth reaching him through his clothes. “It makes me love you all the more.”

His lips twitched. “Reckon I don’t mind then. Least, in private. When there ain’t the possibility of my gunhand and my pilot hearing me and making fun.”

She grinned. “Jayne sings, you know that.”

“Yeah, but Hank can't carry a tune if his life depended on it.”

Freya picked up a roll and put it on his plate. “He plays the piano instead.”

“Don’t mention that word,” Mal implored, glancing at Ellie and being relieved that she seemed to be engrossed in her grand-daughters.

“I won't let her make you sing,” Freya promised, trying not to laugh. “And if Hank shows any sign of heading for a musical instrument I’ll shoot him for you.”

“I’d take that as a kindness. But nowhere that’d stop him from flying.”

“Deal.” But she’d heard something else in his voice, and her eyes met his. “We’re not staying much longer, are we?”

“No, ai ren ,” he confirmed, keeping their conversation low. “Coming back here was good for Kaylee, needed