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“Yes.” Niall folded his arms across his chest and glared out the window.

“Grand,” Colin muttered, and they left the crowded harbor behind and drove up into the hills of Inishmore. The car puttered along Cottage Road, low stone walls breaking up the rich green landscape. There were tourists with cameras hanging around their necks, peering around in the rain—Niall was reminded of the woman on the docks. The locals were hurrying about their business or stopping along the roadside to chat with one another.

“Alison Murphy said someone’s rented the cottage for the whole summer,” Niall noted absently. “To watch Róisín.”

“Ha! Well good luck to ’em,” Colin said. “I bet it’s one of those hippie Aussies. Alison probably wants someone close by in case Róisín falls off her cart.”

“Is she still doing pony and trap tours?”

“Do you think there’s a man, woman, or sea creature on this island who could stop her?”

Niall’s lips twitched. Róisín Callahan was a lover of all fairy stories—mermaids and banshees and púcas. He remembered how she would scare the shit out of the children during Pátrún—Niall’s father would tell her every year not to bring up the Dullahan, and every year she’d tell the tale of the headless rider on a black horse whose coming would mean death if he stopped in a village.

All these years later, Róisín was still doing as she pleased. Nothing ever changed on this island.

They drove past the cheery yellow farmhouse where Niall had spent his youth, and sure enough, his mother was standing in the open doorway waving to them as they passed.

“I told her we’d stop by once you’d settled in,” Colin said, returning the wave. “Your da’s at the pub with Pocket.”

Niall appreciated the heads up. He wasn’t ready to face his father quite yet. Though he couldn’t wait to see the family dog. The last time he’d visited was two Christmases ago.

“How’s the house?” he asked.

“It’s not bad, actually. Old Fagan kept it pretty tight. It’s not the Ritz but it’ll do fine. You’ll like the kitchen,” Colin added. “Lots of counter space.”

He winked and Niall’s mouth twitched again. He did love a well-fashioned kitchen.

“Bless me, was that a smile? And honest to goodness Niall O’Connor smile? Didn’t think I’d be seeing one of those for a month at least.”

“Har har. You’re a regular comedian, Colin. Maybe you should change professions.”

“Think your da would let me do a standup night at the pub?”

Colin let out a bellowing laugh and even Niall gave a small chuckle, imagining Owen O’Connor’s face at the mention of standup comedy and his precious pub in the same sentence.

The house they’d rented had once belonged to an old friend of Colin’s father, but he had moved to Doolin to be closer to his daughter and her children. It was tucked in between his parents’ house to the south and Róisín’s home high up on the hill to the north. The house was sturdy and white, two stories with a red door and slate roof. It had been years since Niall and Colin had roomed together—back when Colin was studying music at Trinity and Niall was working in a pub called the Crooked Antler. Eventually they’d gotten their own flats. Colin was often traveling to whatever city would pay him to play at their pubs and then Niall had moved in with Deirdre. It felt a bit like old times to be living with his best friend again, though the house promised to be more comfortable than the tiny flat they’d once rented in Ranelagh. Colin parked the car and Niall grabbed his bag from the back.

“Home sweet home,” Colin said, opening the door with a flourish. It was simply but neatly furnished—a large main room, a narrow hall that led back to the kitchen, and a set of stairs going up to the second floor.

“I took the best room,” Colin joked. When Niall got upstairs he realized both bedrooms were identical, square with two windows each and brass beds. He dropped his bag on the bed and opened the narrow, creaking wardrobe door. Inside smelled like mothballs, and the memory of Deirdre came unexpectedly, like a punch to the gut, surprising him with its ferocity. The one time in their three-year relationship that he’d brought her home from Dublin to the island to visit, she’d gone to hang up her clothes in his old room at his parents’ place and wrinkled her nose.

“Does your mam own stock in mothballs?” she’d quipped. “I’m going to smell like my gran this whole trip!”

Niall’s jaw clenched, the spring tightening again as he slammed the wardrobe door shut. He left his bag unpacked on his bed and wandered down to the kitchen. The appliances were old but well maintained. There was more counter space than he’d expected, despite Colin’s description. A small island with a teak top sat in the center of the room, a couple of high stools on one side, copper pots and pans hanging from a rack above it. A block of knives was next to the gas stove—Niall took one out and examined it. It needed sharpening.

“Unpacked already?” Colin asked, standing in the doorway.

Niall shook his head. “I’ll do it later. Probably should wash everything anyway.” Somehow Deirdre’s scent still lingered, like she was perched on his shoulder or hidden in his pocket, following him wherever he went. He scraped his hand over his two-day-old stubble. Even here, even as far away from Dublin as he could get without leaving the bloody country, he could still smell the faint trace of her jasmine perfume.

“We should go see my mam,” he said, though he was already tired at the thought of going anywhere, doing anything, seeing anyone.

Colin walked over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Before we go,” he said, “you’re taking a shower. You look a mess, Nie. You don’t want your mam to see you like this.”

Once he’d showered and shaved and borrowed a shirt from Colin, Niall drove them to the old farmhouse down the road.

They could’ve walked over, but the rain had picked up again.

“I hope Fiona’s making a roast,” Colin said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starved.”