Then heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs behind me. “Mam, Da—did you see—” Mick stops short when he reaches the bottom step and sees we have company. “Well,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t know we were having company.” He strides forward and sticks out his hand toward the boy. “Mick.”

The boy takes my brother’s offered hand. “Ronin.”

An older man steps inside next, carrying a pie tin in his hands. I recognize him right away from my parents’ old photo albums. Cormac Byrne. Da’s oldest friend and the reason our family moved here from Ireland. He crosses to Mam and hands her the tin, pressing a kiss to her cheek before turning to the room. “I see you’ve met my son Ronin,” he says.

My father’s hand settles on my shoulder. “This is my daughter Alannah,” he says. “And my son Michael.” My brother shoots Da a look but says nothing. He hates when anyone uses his full name.

“How do you do?” I say quietly. When I chance a look at Ronin, I find his eyes still on me.