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Instead, I look for Ellen.

It’s small, what I do. Folk would miss it if they blinked. But Ellen misses nothing.

I step forward as if I mean only to join the rest of them, cup in hand, one more voice in the noise. When I lift it, the crowd lifts theirs with me without even thinking. That’s what a night like this does—makes a body part of something larger.

“When folk carry the fire home, they carry a grave responsibility,” I say, and my voice steadies as soon as it finds the rhythm of my father’s. “So here’s what we say when the Bealtaine fire is lit.”

My eyes find Ellen’s and hold.

“May you find the courage to chase each dream, and the strength to weather each storm, may joy and laughter let your spirit beam, and enduring love keep you warm.”

As the crowd recites my words, my eyes stay on hers.

Everyone else may take the sentiment as their own, but I mean every word for her. I want the blessing to warm whatever in her is cold. I want joy for her in this life, and would gladly be the hand that helps place it there.

“Here’s tae us—wha’s like us?” I shout, raising my glass higher.

“Gey few, and they’re aw deid!” the crowd answers in roaring unison.

“Slàinte mhòr!” I call out over the laughter, and the crowd echoes me once more, glasses clinking all around.

I force myself to look away.

It takes effort. The kind that leaves a man keenly aware of his own will. In a crowd like this, attention lingers too long and gathers meaning whether one intends it or not. I’ve no wish to invite questions I’m unwilling to answer, nor to place Ellen beneath the weight of other people’s noticing.

So, I turn to do what’s expected of me.

I take a glowing brand, offer its ember to the next unlit torch, and watch others light their torches and lanterns from the same shared flame. The symbolism presses in from every side—continuity, protection, inheritance.

I’ve always spoken of such things as abstractions. Freedom. Sacrifice. Loyalty. Words men like Robert can set aflame with a speech.

This year, they feel heavier. Less symbolic, more exacting. Robert’s brother was arrested, we’ve been cast out of Trinity, and every road out of Dublin seems to carry the same whisper: something is coming.

When the dancing begins, it’s rough and communal, lines and circles forming and breaking apart as the fiddles strike up again. I join when I’m pulled, laugh when I’m jostled, spin a girl flushed with drink and joy, and send her back to her friends with a grin I can manage convincingly enough.

But my attention keeps slipping away.

Róisín appears at Ellen’s elbow like she’s been waiting for her moment.

“Come on,” Róisín says, grabbing Ellen’s wrist. “Don’t you dare stand there like a statue.”

Ellen stiffens. “I’m tired.”

“So are the rest of us,” Róisín fires back, bright-eyed and merciless. “And we’re dancing anyway.”

Ellen begins another protest, but Róisín cuts her off with a grin. “It’s done. Sinclair’s done it as he promised he would. He’s got others handlin’ the rest so you can enjoy yourself.”

I feel heat crawl up my neck at that. I keep my expression neutral, but I don’t miss the way Ellen goes still.

“Róisín,” she warns.

Róisín only leans closer. “Don’t glare at me. I’m just tellin’ you what I see. The man’s been haulin’ half the estate like he’s on a mission to earn a blessin’.”

I snort under my breath at that. She’s not wrong.

Róisín ought to look around. She’s practically shouting this conversation into my ear.

“I dinnae care,” Ellen says.