Maire halts abruptly and turns to look at you, peering over her glasses.
"People like to talk. Especially around these parts. But it's best not to ask too many questions about Orla O'Donnell and her family. I leave them be, they leave me be."
You only arrived in Ireland from London a couple of days ago, picked up from the airport by Aunt Maire in her battered, mud-spattered Jeep. The two of you are still getting used to each other's company and trying to decide if you like one another. Maire lives alone, running the Wolf's Head, her rambling country inn in the hills above Ballyavon. You suspect that she's not used to any company, let alone that of a teenager. Her manner towards you veers between treating you as though you were three and as though you were thirty.
You've never met Aunt Maire before, your father's older sister. Your father has rarely even mentioned her before now. You've never even been to Ireland before. Although your father is Irish, he emigrated to London when he was young. And Irish heritage was nothing unusual at the Catholic school you attended there, St. Jerome's. You were better known…
…as a wheeler-dealer, a budding entrepreneur.
…as an exceptional student.
…for your promising football skills.
…for your love of theatre.
…for your skill with computers.
…for your devotion to boxing.
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