“Killed him?” Surprised, Shannon glanced over. “What’s this? Cain and Abel?”

“A bit like, I suppose. Though the murdering brother inherited the garden rather than being banished from it. Their name was Concannon, and as time passed one of the daughters of the missing brother married a Muldoon. They were given a slice of land by her uncle and worked it well. And over the years the tide turned. Now it’s Muldoon land, and the Concannons have only the edges.”

“And you don’t resent that?”

“Why should I? It’s fair justice. And even if it weren’t, even if that long ago brother fell into some bog in a drunken stupor, it’s Murphy who loves the land as my own da never did. Here we are. This is what’s mine.”

“It’s a lovely house.” And it was, she mused, studying it. A bit more than a cottage, she decided, though that was certainly the heart of it. The pretty stone that was so typical of the area rose up two floors. There was an interesting jog in the line of it, what she assumed was an addition. And the artist’s touch, she thought, in the trim that was painted a peacock purple.

“We added to it, so that Rogan could have office space, and there’d be a room for Liam.” Maggie shook her head as she turned away. “And, of course, the man insisted we add another room or two while we were about it. Already planning a brood, though that slipped past me at the time.”

“Looks like you’re accommodating him.”

“Oh, he’s blissful at the idea of family, is Rogan. Comes from being an only child, perhaps. And I’ve discovered I feel much the same. I’ve a knack for motherhood, and a pride in it. Strange how one person can change everything.”

“I don’t think I realized how much you love him,” Shannon said quietly. “You seem so . . . individual.”

“What’s one to do with the other?” Maggie let out a breath and frowned at the stone building that was her solitude, her sanctuary. Her shop. “Well, let’s do this then. But the deal says nothing about you putting your hands all over things.”

“The famed Irish hospitality.”

“Bugger it,” Maggie said with a grin and crossed over to open the door.

The heat was a shock. It explained the rumbling roar Shannon had begun to hear a full field away. The furnace was lit. Realizing it made her feel guilty for keeping Maggie from work.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d be holding you up.”

“I’ve nothing pressing.”

The guilt didn’t have a chance against fascination. Benches, shelves were stacked with tools, scattered sheets of paper, works in progress. There was a large wooden chair with wide arms, slots, and dips carved and sanded into the sides. Buckets filled with water or sand.

In a corner, like lances stacked, were long metal poles.

“Are those pipes?”

“Pontils. You gather the glass on the end of them, do melts in the furnace. You use the pipe to blow the bubble.” Maggie lifted one. “You neck it with the jacks.”