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curious about the woman, she steadied herself and turned around. Her heart accelerated and sweat dribbled out of her armpits, but she congratulated herself for, if not making eye contact, at least letting her gaze rest on the woman’s chin.
    “Good job,” Dermot said. “Like going on stage, right? Worse beforehand, but once you’re there, you’re fine.”
    So you say , Gemma signed.
    Dermot held up the stone toward one of the sconces and it brightened like an eye. The broken chain dangled below his hand. “This is pretty, Gemma, but if you wanted me to buy you a necklace, why didn’t you ask? Of course, I will buy you a new chain for it, Miss—?”
    Introductions circled between the three of them standing above her. They hurried through them as if they didn’t care to stay acquainted. The dog owner, Alan, was also the pub owner. The woman, Merrit, was American. “And Gemma McNamara meet Alan and Merrit,” Dermot said.
    Merrit said hello, and Alan reached out to give Bijou a pat. Over by the bar, pint glasses clanked and someone howled with laughter.
    Ask her where she got the necklace , Gemma signed.
    Dermot returned the broken necklace to Merrit. “She would like to know where you got the necklace.”
    “Oh, is that all?” Merrit’s face brightened when she smiled. Gemma liked her for not treating her like a curiosity and for stooping to answer her. She didn’t raise her voice or slow her speech either. Her hair glinted with red highlights even in the shadows, and her light hazel eyes glowed from within like the moonstone, except with a green glow rather than blue.
    “I got the necklace from my mom,” she said, “who’d gotten it from my father.”
    “That’s the simple version,” Alan said. “Most interesting is who Merrit’s father is.”
    “And why,” Merrit said, “must I explain when we both know that the minute I leave the whole lot of you locals will rush to confess my many sins to Gemma and Dermot?”
    “Come, Bijou,” Alan said. “Time for a walk.”
    Eighty pounds of dog flesh sat up again and leaned against Gemma, then followed Alan’s stiff form out of the pub.
    “Sorry,” Merrit said to Gemma. “Village politics. Long story short, I came to Ireland to meet my biological father and stayed. Or, am staying for the moment.” She paused. “My dad is Liam the Matchmaker. I’m the grand usurper and demon seed, especially because his son, Kevin, moved away last year pretty much because of me and hasn’t been seen since. He was adopted, and here I arrive, a blood relation—anyhow, I’m suspected of casting him out with a hex, I’m sure, not to mention wrecking a marriage and bringing murder to the village, which of course I didn’t. Not really, anyhow. You’d think people would lighten up after a while.”
    Merrit smiled and shrugged, but Gemma caught the discomfort beneath the nonchalant gesture. “To answer your question, my father the matchmaker gave my mother this necklace as a love gesture back in the 1970s, and I inherited it when she died.”
    “Excuse me,” Dermot said, “did I hear you say that the matchmaker bought this necklace?”
    Something in Dermot’s tone made Gemma shrink into the invisible shell she carried around with her. She curled back toward the wall. The connection between the matchmaker and the necklace hit too close to home, right where Gemma’s bottomless well resided. Out of her mouth came a sound, one of the few she made. The unearthly vocal scratch sounded far away, but it was hers all right. Her skin felt flayed, imagining everyone looking at her and wondering about her awful voice, so unused, so scratchy.
    Behind her, Merrit rushed to ask what was wrong.
    “We have our own long story.” The pillow shifted and Dermot’s body warmth replaced Bijou’s. Gemma pressed her spine against his side.
    “What does my necklace have to do with it?” Merrit said.
    I don’t know , screamed Gemma inside her head.
    Dermot’s breath tickled the back