The perfectly harmonious sound echoed through the marble hall (what was it with Zeus and marble, anyway?), shattering Adele’s confidence. Her posture drooped; she squeezed her eyes tight against tears. Again.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Balsinde reprimanded her. “Don’t start listening to that voice in your head.”

Adele curled her upper lip. “What do you know?”

The older woman ruffled her feathers in a shrug. “You’re telling yourself that it’s hopeless.”

“Have you heard me?” Adele’s chin quivered.

Balsinde arched one perfect eyebrow. “Every day.”

Adele turned her back on her mother’s humiliating scrutiny and sniffled. “Why?"

“Why what?”

“Why are you making me do this?” she whined.

“Making you? Please. We’re not here because I asked you for help.” A pause, then, not quite softly, "Siren."

Adele spun back around, too fast. Her talons scrambled to find purchase on the slick floor, to no avail: she collapsed to the ground with a resounding thud and… just sat there, a trembling heap of raging shame.

“Look at me!” Her fury rang out melodiously, heaping insult onto injury. “I’m hopeless! Ridiculous! Everyone’s going to laugh at me!” Adele’s voice broke on the last word; she buried her face in her wings and sobbed.

Her mother’s embrace, solid and smelling of lavender, cocooned her; Balsinde’s warm breath tickled the back of Adele’s neck. “Hush now, darling. You’re not the only harpy who’s had to learn how to shriek, you know. You’ll grow into your dissonance. Just give it time.”