30 Mac Tíre Maité

"Yes, Ma," Liam mumbles, broad shoulders slumped, head lowered, and his voice showing subtle tones of resignation. Taking a deep breath and turning away, he straightens, composing himself, and then in a sterner voice, he directs the other dozen or so men to clear the room, leaving only a handful of women behind. From my viewpoint between Erin's arms, I watch them go and, from the corner of my eyes, can also make out the figure of Olivia Murphy as one of the ladies taking their seats on various leather lounges scattered around the massive living room.

Before I can look at where the female voice came from, she continues in her Irish accent firmly. "Shannon, Reagan, why don't you two lasses go to the kitchen and make us a spot of tea? I think refreshments are in order?" Continuing to peek from my hiding place, I see that the instructions are coming from a striking older woman with long dark chocolate hair, who is sitting in the chair opposite me as she clears her throat.