Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) by Clare Austin

people caressed and healed by lyric and melody. It spoke of friends, of fish, and of the summer sunsets.
    Was she muse or prophet? Every cell in Tynan’s body sang along with her, as though she reached out and touched the most intimate threads of his soul. He couldn’t swallow and could barely breathe.
    “I stood by your Atlantic shore and sang a song for Ireland,” she sang in tones meant to transcend the physical and pierce the core of an Irishman’s spirit.
    The strains ceased. A benediction of silence hovered. Ty closed his eyes, picked up his glass, and let the smooth whiskey glide over his tongue and down his throat. The band picked up with a jig and the spell was broken.
    When he looked again, the singer was gone.
    Tynan had an overwhelming need to be outside, in the air, under the sky, where he could hear Ireland’s own song. “Does this cover it?” He put a handful of euro bills on the bar.
    “Ah, sure, and are you off so early, young man?”
    “It’s been a long one. And even this fine group of players is going to have a time topping that last tune.”
    The publican nodded. “That’s my daughter, Muireann.”
    Tynan’s throat went dry. “Muireann? Muireann O’Malley is your daughter?”
    A roll of laughter rumbled through the barman’s chest. “Sure, she is, and the finest a father could claim.” He turned to serve a pint at the other end of the bar.
    A thrill of anticipation sent a tremor through Tynan’s chest.
    She was here.
    Truly, where else would he have expected her to be?
    Tynan called his thanks to O’Malley and walked toward the back, past the toilets. He didn’t see it coming…the swinging door that hit him.
    “Ow!” The edge of the door had caught him in the temple and knocked him backward.
    “Jaysus. I...Sorry...What are you doin’ standing on the other side of the door?”
    His hand went to his head where a lump was starting to rise. “It’s Tynan, not Jaysus, but you can call me anything you want if you promise not to hit me again.” The sharp pain disappeared and his heart raced. “Muireann?”
    “That would be meself.” Her hand pinched his chin and turned his head from side to side. She narrowed her eyes and searched his face. “Tynan? Tynan Sloane?” Incredulity modified the pitch of her voice.
    “The same.”
    Sable eyes pinioned him with electric intensity and ignited a fire that tore a path straight down his belly and beyond. She tossed her head back and laughed. “What the hell are you doing here? Rumor was you moved to America.”
    Caught off guard, he had no chance to filter his response. “I came to find you,” he blurted. If it wasn’t the entire truth, it was not exactly a lie either.
    “Did ya now?” Muireann’s laugh rang like golden bells with a hint of wickedly naughty dissonance. Tynan was not sorry he had caused it.
    The angles of her face had matured but still sparked with the mischievous brilliance she’d had as a teen. She had not a shred of shyness about her. That hadn’t changed. She’d been fearless those many years ago, accepting his furtive attentions with unpretentious curiosity and then demanding he kiss her a second time.
    “So, Tynan Sloane, it appears you’ve found me,” she said. “Do you have any other plans?”
    “I was just heading out…for a ramble. Join me?”
    “Are you a fool? It’s bucketing.” Her eyes danced with mischief and then lost focus on him. Her attention was drawn to the pub entrance.
    “Ya fuckin’ wanker,” she hissed under her breath and the room fell into an unnatural quiet. “Ian Feeney, don’t let the door hit you in yer fat arse on the way back out of here,” she seethed.
    Tynan turned and saw the target of Muireann’s anger. The man was red-faced and steaming.
    “It’s a public house and I’m the public.” Ian had a rolled newspaper in his fist. “I want a word with you, Muireann O’Malley.”
    “That’ll be the day hell freezes over, ya flamin’ chancer.” Muireann