Patrick Collins looked up from his book and tried to hide a smile as his five-year-old granddaughter flittered into the living room in a long yellow ball gown. The outfit was a far cry from the T-shirt and shorts he’d put her to bed in not more than twenty minutes earlier. “I thought you were taking a wee nap, Fiona.”

Fiona Adams shook her head. “No. I’m not tired. We’re going to have a dance.”

“I see.” Patrick put the bookmark in place to mark his spot and lowered the leg rest on his recliner. “So, no nap?”

Patrick wasn’t surprised, and he figured his daughter, Teagan, wouldn’t be too upset with him for failing to get the young child to sleep. It was obvious when she’d suggested he put Fiona down for an hour or so, Teagan had no expectation of his success.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Babies take naps. I’m not a baby. I’m Belle.”

“Well, you certainly do look like the belle of the ball. Is that the dress your cousin Caitie gave you earlier?”

Fiona held it out and curtsied. “It fits.”

He recalled Fiona’s delight as she went through the bag of hand-me-downs Keira had dropped by earlier in the day. His kids had grown up passing down their clothes—pretty much a necessity when raising seven of them—and they’d always felt the same excitement as they’d tried on the “new” old clothes. Fiona nearly had a conniption when she’d come across the Belle dress, ready to change immediately, but Teagan had tucked it aside, telling her daughter she could try it on later.

Patrick understood now why it had been so easy for him to get her to lay down. She’d wanted easy, uninterrupted access to the dress they’d tucked away in the bedroom.

She walked closer to him. “You’re the beast.”

Patrick chuckled. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose. As I recall, your cousin made me play this role when she was wearing that dress as well.”

Fiona took his hand, drawing him up and over to the old record player in the corner. He’d had the thing for close to forty years and Fiona was enthralled by it. Nowadays, it was only used a few times a year, most of those when Fiona was visiting.

The rest of the year, she spent on her parents’ tour bus, traveling around the country as they performed shows in so many cities in the U.S., he’d lost count.

Sky Mitchell and Teagan Collins.

Fiona’s parents had run into each other in the pub just over a decade ago and since then, they’d taken the world by storm with their music. While Fiona’s older sister, Ailis, didn’t seem quite as fond of the constant motion, Fee took to it like a fish to water. She was inquisitive, vivacious, and energetic. Or to quote her tired mother when she’d dropped her off this morning, “Precocious as hell. Hide your credit cards and anything else you value.”

“Play that dancing-girl song.”

Patrick tried to figure out what she meant, but he drew a blank. “Dancing girl?”

Fiona gave him a rather impatient look as if what she wanted should be obvious. “You played it last time. I think her name is Manilla.”

“Ah,” the light went on. “‘Waltzing Matilda’.”

“That’s it. Play that one.”

Patrick didn’t have a clue what it was about that song she’d remembered. He had found an album of children’s songs in a secondhand shop a year earlier and bought it to play for Fiona’s visit, knowing how she loved the record player. She’d made him play that particular song no less than twenty times, always giggling as she sang along.

He flipped through the albums until he found it, then pulled the record from the sleeve. “Are you sure this is appropriate music for your ball? I thought Belle and the Beast danced to something else.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, something she appeared to do quite a lot whenever she felt the adults around her were saying something ridiculous. He’d heard Sky trying to explain to her just last night at dinner that it wasn’t polite, but when Fiona persistently questioned him about why, fielding all his answers with more questions, the lecture quickly failed. Tris had pointed to her and quietly commented that, “Teagan and Sky have their hands full with that one,” while Riley leaned over and proclaimed Fiona, “the coolest kid ever.”

“It’s ball music because it’s slow and I need you to twirl me. See?” She spun in a circle, her yellow dress flowing outwards in a pretty fan.

“I understand.” Patrick started to put the needle down, but Fiona pushed closer.

“Can I do that?”

The last time he’d deemed her too young, worried about her scratching the record or breaking the needle. He suspected he wouldn’t win that argument again. “You remember you have to do it carefully.”

She nodded earnestly. “I’ll be careful.” She lifted the arm and together they counted out the three lines that indicated where her song started. True to her word, she lowered it very gently, holding in her excitement when the music began playing until she’d backed away from the player, so as not to jar it.

Fiona took his arm, and they did a rather frenzied jig that involved a lot of spinning on her part as he held her hands. He wasn’t sure how she didn’t get dizzy, but it was clear from the sheer joy on her face, she was in her element.

“Play it again,” she cried out when the music stopped.

They took Matilda out for three more waltzes before Fiona started to slow down.

“I love to dance.”

“So do I,” Patrick said when the song ended again. “Used to cut a rug with your grandma Sunday in this living room all the time.”

Fiona glanced at the floor, confused. “Why did you cut the rug? Where?”

He laughed, and the two of them collapsed onto the couch to catch their breath. “It’s an expression. It means dancing.”

“Cut a rug,” she repeated. No doubt she’d be pulling that out to use on her parents later. Patrick was very impressed with the young girl’s vocabulary. Teagan said she was a voracious reader, several grade levels ahead of most five-year-olds.

She turned to face him on the couch, her cheeks red from dancing. Fiona and her sister shared their mother’s auburn hair and porcelain skin. Her bright blue eyes took in everything, expressed everything.

“I swear you are the spit of your mother, Fiona.”

She considered that, then—clever girl—said, “You said that last time I was here. It means I look like her.”

He grinned. “It does. You have your mother’s looks and your father’s personality.” While Teagan and little Ailis were quiet and more introspective, Fiona and Sky tended to take over a room. Not in a bad way. They just had these larger-than-life personalities that drew attention. He’d noticed it last night when the grandchildren were playing after dinner. Though she was younger than several of her cousins, Fiona seemed to drive the action, the older kids following her suggestions because they were fun. In fact, fun appeared to follow the young girl. She was creative and clever, quick to laugh, and always telling silly jokes that had all the adults in stitches.

“Your name suits you.”

“My name?” she asked.

“Fiona. It means fair.”

Fiona sighed and shook her head. “That doesn’t fit at all.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My mom said so.” Fiona adopted a tone he suspected was her imitating her mother. “She always says, ‘You’re not playing fair, Fiona. You have to share your toys with Ailis.’ Even when I don’t want to.”

Patrick worked overtime to school his features, certain his daughter probably did use that line—more than once a day—with Fiona. Teagan had taken Ailis to Keira’s house today for a play day, claiming Fiona’s big sister deserved a break. The two sisters were together on the bus twenty-four-seven and, given Fiona’s rather overpowering presence, he thought it was a good idea to let Ailis have some time away.

“Sharing is important,” he tried to stress, even though it was clear Fiona wasn’t having it.

“They’re my toys.”

“Does Ailis share her toys with you?”

That one stumped her, but only for a minute. “Yes. I ask and she gives them to me. When she asks me, I say no. So that means no.”

Ailis had a soft heart. No doubt she did hand her things over easily, just to keep peace.

Patrick began to understand Sky’s frustration last night at dinner, so he cut his losses. “What I was trying to say is your name suits you because in this instance, fair means pretty.”

“Oh!” Fiona’s eyes widened. “It’s my dress.”

He reached out and ruffled her hair. “It’s more than that.”

“My mommy is pretty.”

He nodded. “That she is. And while, yes, these rosy cheeks and bright eyes and red hair all make you pretty, there are some things on the inside that do the same thing as well.”

“What things?”

“Your boundless energy. And how smart and funny you are. And your inner strength.”

Fiona’s nose crinkled. “What’s that?”

“You know who you are, Fee. That’s a very unusual thing, and something you rarely see in young children. You are strong. But that comes with some responsibility, you know?”

“Like what?”

Patrick thought of quiet Ailis. “You need to use your strength to help others who maybe aren’t as strong see the good in themselves. Fair means pretty. And it means what your mommy says too.”

“Fiona means fair,” she repeated. Fiona gave him a look that said she was only buying about half of what he was selling.

He covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. A handful indeed.

“I like being pretty. But I’m never going to want to share.” She pierced him with a look that drove home exactly how intelligent his young granddaughter was. “I want what I want,” she explained. “And I want everything,” she added in an adorable voice she clearly meant to be scary.

“Everything, hm? And what would that include, my fair Fiona?”

“I want to have a big house with a ballroom and a handsome prince who rubs my feet like Daddy does for Mommy. I want lots of pretty dresses and jewelry and a crown and a convertible and a cook who makes me whatever I want to eat, and I want to be famous, like Mommy and Daddy. You can come live with me if you want.”

“Ah, so you can share.”

She giggled.

“That’s a very generous offer. Thank you. And what are you going to be when you grow up to be able to afford all these wonderful things…apart from a princess, of course.”

Fiona smiled and never hesitated. “I’m going to tell stories.”

Patrick waited for her to explain, but Fiona clearly thought that said it all.

A storyteller. He considered her nonstop narratives since their arrival in Baltimore yesterday morning. Fiona had regaled him with no less than thirty tales from the road, and he’d been enthralled by every single one.

Leave it to Fiona to have her life figured out by five.

Patrick reached over and ruffled her hair affectionately. “I think that sounds just fine. Never lose sight of that goal, Fee, and you’ll be happy indeed.”