[Fingon's eyes do linger on the tree branches a moment longer than one might think. His world is built of Song and and the music of creation lingers in Arda still; that one might manipulate creation through music itself is no surprise to him.]

Perhaps they are not. It can take some time to grow into one's instrument. But we may still be able to figure out what your trouble is. I have some skill with the harp myself, and should I fail to be of service there are a few other harpists in the city we can turn to.

[He smiles at the little blonde girl, clever and all impatient to be grown, and thinks of the niece he has not seen for centuries. The thought brings some pain, as it often does, but it strengthens his determination to help the young newcomer.]

Would that plan suit you, young lady?