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A voice booms from the corner, sending waves of jollity over the crowd. Robbie’s tone is a delicious butterscotch brandy to warm the insides. The owner sheds his publican apron to reveal a round belly forever destined to separate the buttons on his vest from their buttonholes.

My jeans press tight against my full belly as I wiggle my cell from a pocket to check our schedule. Sure enough, Storyteller Robert Corrigan is listed right after authentic Irish breakfast.

Robbie sweeps a hand across the benches of students. “Dia duit. That’s how we say hello in Irish. Let’s hear ya.” He cups a hand around one ear.

As if singing the chorus of a song where not everyone bothered to memorize the lyrics, the room Dia duits him back.

Our storyteller drops his head into his hands. “Saint Patrick will send every snake back to Ireland with a greetin’ like that. Give it another go. Dee-ah-hoich.”

The second attempt is far from native. Hopefully, it’s good enough to keep serpents off the island.

After pulling up a stool, Robert Corrigan points a finger at us. “It’s not all leprechauns and pots of gold. Irish stories are dipped in darkness, but they do open a window into who we are, our wit, mystery, and dreams.” His eyes dart to Sion and then back to the group.

Sion leans against the wall, arms crossed, his stare locked on the storyteller. Behind him, above forest green wainscoting, an oval of missing plaster reveals a brick wall nearly the same color as the undertones in his hair.

I’m jealous. I was raised on these stories too, but Sion gets to spend his life hearing them told and retold. All I have left are memories of cold winter nights and firelight from the hearth tickling the walls of our living room as my grandmother shared tales of magic salmon and the cost of bargaining with Faeries. Her stories eased me into dream flashes as flames took on shapes of characters to bring her narratives to life.

The audience erupts in laughter as our host dips his head, shooting a warning look across the room. “And that’s why you never ask a cat a question. He might answer, and then your fortune is no better than curdled cream.”

Charlie straddles the bench to gather Colleen in his arms. They ooze sweetness. For her sake, I hope the lightning bolt between them ignites passion instead of a scorch.

Robbie continues to toy with his audience. “Famines, war, invasion. Ireland’s had its blows and bruises. Stories are the tie keeping us bound to this land with the promise—when we’re at our most desperate, Tír na nÓg will answer.”

A profound longing for Máthair slams a fist to my heart. Is there a window in Tír na nÓg where she can look out to see me?

I’m here like you asked, grandmother. I’ve come to your Ireland.

The story shifts to the somber tones of a prayer, recapturing my attention. “And a swan shall rise above the crest of the sea from the west, Tír na nÓg’s messenger, beating mighty wings to chase shadow from the land of trapped souls.”

Gentle breath warming my ear makes me jump. “Country folk here put great store into these myths.” I’d been so inside the story, I missed Sion sidling back beside me. “Robbie’s got the gift, doesn’t he?”

I want to push him away and run, not from fear or dislike, but because his accent, his way of speaking, is too close to home. The timbre and the cadence of old-fashioned phrasing in his voice is so like Máthair’s, I hunger for it. Dripped in darkness indeed.

When I glance across the table for an assist, Colleen and Charlie have vanished. I twist in my seat, scanning the pub for them.

“They’ve gone to give the snug a go.”

I see two silhouettes melting into one behind the frosted glass of the snug. That explains Sion’s reapproach.

“Robbie’s gearin’ up, love.” Sion taps my shoulder, withdrawing his hand so quickly, it seems like it burns him to touch me. “Now the ole seanchaí will be serving tales of the Irish supernatural.”

I start at the familiar word for storyteller. Máthair claimed it was her duty to be my seanchaí and teach me the lore of the Irish folk she swore I belonged to.

“He’ll be asking for a Faerie shilling as payment for his yarns.”

I turn my head a fraction to drink in more of Sion’s accent. “Faerie shilling?”

His squarish hand with its stubby fingers helps itself to a piece of bacon off my plate. He gestures with the breakfast meat before popping it into his mouth while he whispers a story involving a coin gifted from a Faerie to a human that always returns to the mortal’s pocket after being spent. Robert Corrigan tackles the same topic from the stage, but it’s Sion’s voice swirling around me. My eyes drift half-closed. I want to pull his words closer, tuck them inside my coat and savor the pool of comfort their sound brings me.

Find me.

An image of Máthair’s ring bobs on the current of Sion’s story. Maybe it’s not a single thing or person I’m looking for but pieces of what I’ve lost with her absence. Could the melody of this man’s words be one of them? If only there were a way to separate the voice from its owner.

When I don’t respond, he nudges a shoulder against mine. “Do you believe me?”

I shrug.

“I’m guessing the way you push your lips out is not asking for a kiss.”