Chapter One
ACT I: A Pudde And A Flame
The sausages fried just as the rain began — soft and silver against the kitchen windows. Shiv moved in rhythm with it, silent but precise, pouring hot water into the French press, her hands familiar with the early hush of a house caught between rest and responsibility.
Her body, once lean with youth and all its sharp corners, now bore the softened curve of motherhood and years of sleepless nights. There were faint stretch marks beneath the loose hem of her shirt, silvering at the edges like old silk. Her stomach was softer than it once was, her hips just a little fuller, but her chest, while still small, felt fuller in a way that had come to feel grounded rather than burdened. Her face, framed by a loose strand of chestnut hair, had thinned slightly with age but carried a grace earned through knowing — medicine, grief, love. Her eyes, still that honey brown, held it all.
Fionn thundered down the stairs, hoodie half-zipped, one boot on and the other clutched in his hand.
He was newly seventeen now — taller than Ronan by half an inch and still growing. Gaelic football had sculpted him into an athletic silhouette: long-limbed, broad-shouldered, strong through the core and legs. He moved with the casual power of someone who hadn’t yet realized how magnetic he was, but others certainly had. Girls noticed. Adults whispered that he’d inherited Ronan’s rugged good looks — the sharp cheekbones, the strong brow, the storm-dark hair that curled just enough to be unruly when wet, the icy blue eyes. But his smile was Shiv’s: shy yet piercing, full of fire and feeling.
There was something else in him, too — something more than just good genetics. A quiet intensity. The edge of something ancient curled just beneath the surface, something he didn’t speak of but felt constantly, like a heartbeat beneath his skin.
“Breakfast?” Shiv asked, already reaching for the bread.
“Late,” he muttered, jamming his foot into the boot and yanking the laces tight. His hair was still damp from the shower, stubborn curls plastered against his forehead.
“You’d be less late if you didn’t sleep with your window open in the rain again,” came Ronan’s voice from the doorway.
Ronan O’Sullivan had grown into his forties with a kind of wolfish elegance. He’d let his hair grow a little longer, and there were silver flecks now — not just in his beard but streaking faintly through the dark locks around his temples. His frame was still broad, but softened slightly in the belly and shoulders, shaped more by long hours behind a desk than the wild labor of his youth. Still, he carried strength in his posture — a man who had known the sea and fought shadows, and who now defended his peace with quiet vigilance.
Fionn rolled his eyes. “I like the sound. Helps me sleep.”
“Helps you sleep through your alarm too.”
“I got up, didn’t I?”
Ronan leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The years had etched new lines into his face, but his presence was the same — grounded, flinty, immovable. Fatherhood had sharpened his edges and softened his silences.
“You got up late,” he said.
“I don’t need a lecture,” Fionn snapped, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
Shiv slid the egg and sausages onto a plate and slid it toward her son. “Eat up, honey.”
“I’ll eat at school.”
“Not the point,” she said gently, eyes flicking between the two of them like a practiced mediator.
There it was again — the air thick with something unspoken. Not anger, not even irritation. Just friction. A tectonic shifting between father and son, both strong-willed and deeply rooted, both too much like the other to see clearly.
Ronan picked up his coffee but didn’t drink. “You still going to practice after school?”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t waste your energy picking fights.”
Fionn bit back a retort, taking the sausage anyway, chewing with unnecessary force. Shiv poured herself a mug of coffee and leaned on the counter between them.
“He didn’t pick the fight,” she said quietly, to no one in particular.
Ronan exhaled through his nose, gaze softening just enough to glance at his wife. “Noted.”
Fionn grabbed his jacket. “I’m going. See you later, ma.”
Shiv reached up and brushed his cheek with her knuckles. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” he mumbled, already halfway out the door.
The front door shut behind him with a soft click. Outside, the rain fell steady and slow, painting the garden in moving silver.
Ronan watched the spot where his son had stood, jaw working slightly. “He’s like a tide lately. You never know when it’s going to turn.”
Shiv turned to the sink, sipping her coffee. “That’s what tides do. They pull away, and they come back.”
Ronan came to her side, resting a hand on the counter near hers. “You think I’m too hard on him?”
“I think you see yourself in him, and you’re afraid of what that means.”
He looked down, smile barely there. “So that’s a yes.”
Shiv turned to face him fully, sliding her hand around his waist. “He’s finding his shape, baby. Just like you did.”
A beat of silence. Then: “And look how well that turned out,” he murmured.
She laughed softly, then reached up to kiss him. “Exactly.”
~
St. Ailbe’s Secondary was buzzing by the time Fionn strode across the quad, rain still clinging to the soles of his trainers. The grey stone building stood proud against the misty sky, its narrow windows glowing faintly with classroom lights. Teenagers gathered in little huddles, half-shouting over the wind, trading crisps, secrets, and half-finished homework.
As soon as he stepped into the main corridor, voices lifted.
“Oi, Fionn!”
“Great game last week, man!”
“You coming to Oisín’s after the match Friday?”
He nodded, threw a grin over his shoulder, bumping fists and slapping backs with the ease of someone long accustomed to being watched. Teachers didn’t scold him for being late; they just glanced up and marked him present with resigned tolerance. Even the first-years parted when he passed.
He was well-liked — not for showmanship, but for presence. He made people feel seen when he wanted to. He was quick with a joke, but kept his real thoughts to himself. He had a streak of mystery that made him all the more magnetic. Girls liked him. Boys respected him. Some envied him.
He slid into his seat in History next to Dónal — his closest friend since primary school — who passed him a folded note from behind his textbook.
“Ciara asked if you’re single again. I told her to fuck off.”
Fionn smirked and scrawled beneath it:“You’re a terrible wingman.”
At break, they lounged at their usual spot near the edge of the quad, where the tree line gave way to a view of the distant hills. Fionn held court casually, balancing an apple on his knee, answering questions about Friday’s game like he couldn’t care less while half the girls from Fifth and Sixth Year circled nearby, pretending they weren’t listening.
He spotted the girl once — the flash of a deep-coloured strawberry-blonde hair across the courtyard, the new girl walking beside a teacher with a visitor’s folder tucked under her arm. She didn’t look his way.
That was rare. The thought sat with him through the rest of the day.Huh.
The pitch was slick and reeking of turf when the team took to the grass, the air dense with sweat and thunder.
Coach Rafferty barked orders from the sideline. “Harder runs! Fionn, push through the line, don’t coast!”
“I’m not coasting,” Fionn muttered, out of earshot, already running drills harder than the rest.
But it wasn’t Rafferty he was worried about.
It was Tiernan Walsh.
Tiernan had been nursing a quiet grudge for months — ever since Fionn was named as the next starting full-forward, a spot Tiernan had assumed was his. He was older by a year, thicker through the arms, cocky as hell.
During a scrimmage play, Fionn juked past two defenders and made the shot — clean, high, sailing straight over the bar.
Tiernan rammed into him a second late, shoulder to chest. Fionn staggered back, boots skidding in the mud.
“Little late on the block,” Fionn said, breath sharp.
Tiernan grinned. “Didn’t hear the whistle.”
They squared up, not quite glaring, but not looking away either. The rest of the team slowed. Rafferty shouted something from the sidelines, but it was background noise. The tension simmered. Then Fionn stepped back, tossing the ball lightly toward the coach’s feet.
“All good,” he said flatly.
Tiernan smirked. “Didn’t think you’d fall over so easy, O’Sullivan.”
Fionn’s jaw tensed, but he turned away. Let the moment burn itself out. Inside, though, something flared.
After practice, he showered fast, hair still dripping as he pulled on his jacket. Dónal caught up to him by the lockers.
“You gonna deck him eventually?” he asked, grinning.
Fionn didn’t answer.
“You ever think,” Dónal continued, “that maybe you don’t like being the center of attention as much as everyone thinks?”
Fionn slung his bag over his shoulder. “You ever think about shutting up?”
Dónal laughed and followed him out the door.
Rain had started again. Fionn tilted his face to the sky, letting it soak through his hair, wishing it could wash off more than just mud and sweat.
“So you’re picking me up after the game Friday, right?” Dónal asked.
“Sure thing. Just as long as I get my father to lend me his jeep.”
Dónal shrugged. “As long as you’re my ride, my mom’ll be fine. See ya,”
~
By the time the O’Sullivans reached the cottage on the hill, the mist had turned to a delicate drizzle — fine, almost silver, like breath on glass. Light spilled from the windows of Paul and Mairead’s cottage in a warm amber wash, casting long shadows on the wild hydrangeas framing the path.
Fionn led the way, hands in the pockets of his school jacket, earbuds dangling from his collar, half-listening to the quiet footfalls of his parents behind him. Shiv and Ronan moved slower hand in hand. Not out of age—but from a learned kind of patience.
Paul opened the door before they even knocked. “Come in, come in, it’s cold as the inside of a selkie’s arse out there,” he said, grin broad beneath his neatly trimmed white beard.
His hair had gone silver early — Shiv had teased him once about “blazing into his crone era with swagger.” Now, in his early sixties, Paul wore the years like a good leather jacket: softened by time, but still fitted with purpose. His eyes were as sharp as ever, and they twinkled when he spotted Fionn.
“You’ve gotten taller again,” he accused the boy, stepping aside to let them in. “Do you even sleep, or do you grow through sheer arrogance?”
“I sleep. Sometimes,” Fionn said, grinning at him. He naturally softened around Paul.
Inside, the kitchen was thick with warmth and the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary. The room was lit with soft lamps and candles — Mairead’s touch — and their house had that lived-in calm that only long years of love could make. She stood at the stove in a loose sweater and apron, her once-ginger hair now a bright coppery grey, still long and braided down her back. There was something timeless about her — not unaging, but rather aged beautifully. Her movements were slower, perhaps, but full of the same grace that once provided a moral compass to the group and battle strategy alike.
“Shiv,” Mairead greeted warmly, wrapping her old friend in a fragrant embrace. “You look tired, I hope you turned off your pager for dinner. And Ronan —” she paused, squinting at him. “More grey. I approve.”
“Everyone’s a comedian,” Ronan muttered good-naturedly, shedding his coat.
Imogen and Callum were already inside — Imogen sitting with her bare feet up on the ottoman, glowing with the fullness of her second trimester, one hand cupped protectively over the curve of her belly. Callum hovered beside her like an awkward lighthouse, a hand always drifting within reach, as if the baby might float away if he looked away too long.
“Fionn,” Imogen called, grinning wide. “We heard about Tiernan. Good!”
“I didn’t even hit him,” Fionn protested as he flopped into the armchair. “Barely.”
Callum raised a brow. “Barely enough for Dónal to text the entire group chat within six minutes of practice ending.”
Mairead chuckled, setting down a tray of freshly baked soda bread. “Boys and their pride.”
Shiv shook her head, accepting a glass of wine from Paul. “And coaches and their gossip.”
The group gathered around the table, food spread across it like an offering to the gods. Roasted chicken with rosemary. Boxty with chives and cheese. Charred carrots and honeyed parsnips. Wine flowed and stories were shared.
Fionn sat between his parents, one foot bouncing under the table, soaking in the warmth of the moment. Callum, normally so composed, had flour dust on his shirt from helping Imogen make oat biscuits earlier. Paul and Ronan discussed local politics with all the fire of younger men, while Mairead rolled her eyes and muttered about moving to an island run by selkies instead.
Later, while Mairead served her famous blackberry tart, Fionn caught his mother’s eye. She was watching them all — the laughter, the interruptions, the messy, wonderful noise of their chosen family — and smiling softly.
This, he thought, was what made the rest bearable. And just for a split second, that bright strawberry blonde flashed across his mind again.Huh.
Outside the windows, the rain had stopped. Inside, they were safe.
