“It was such a tragedy. Irish music is beautiful,” he added. “Do you know the rioters’ song?”

“The one about Molly?”

“No, the other one. The one they sang at the end of the riots, when they mourned the dead.”

“You mean ‘An Ember Morning.’ ”

“Yes, that’s it.” He paused, then said: “Would you sing some of it?”

Nick and I laughed at the same time. Zeke went red to the tips of his ears. “Sorry—that was weird,” he said. “I’d just love to hear it sung properly. If it doesn’t bother you too much. I used to like listening to Nadine, but—well, she doesn’t play anymore.”

Nick caught my eye. A whisperer that didn’t play music. Jaxon would not be happy he said gently. I realized Zeke was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

I didn’t know if I could sing the song. Irish music was forbidden in Scion, especially Irish rebel music. I’d had a strong Irish lilt as a child, but out of fear of the spreading hibernophobia in Scion, I’d dropped it when we moved away. Even at eight years old, I could sense the strange looks people gave me when I pronounced something too oddly for their liking. I used to stand in front of the mirror for hours, copying newsreaders, until I’d cultivated a crisp English public school accent. I was still fairly unpopular—I was called “Molly Mahoney” for years—but eventually a small group of girls took me in, probably because my father sponsored the school dance.

Perhaps I owed it to my cousin to remember. I looked out of the window and heard myself recite the song.

My love, it was an ember morning

When October was a-dawning.

Fire cried on the honey meadow.

Come, ghost of the vale,

I am standing in the ashes, where you roam.

Erin waits to bring you home.

My heart, I saw a flame upon the sky

When October’s bitter morn was nigh.

Smoke choked the honey meadow.

Hark, spirit of the south,

I am waiting near the cloven tree,

Now Ireland’s heart is broken by the sea.

There were more verses, but I stopped abruptly. I remembered my grandmother singing it for Finn during the memorial service, the one we’d held in secret in the Vale. Just six of us. No body to bury. That was when my father announced his conscription, leaving my grandparents to face Scion’s military occupation of the south. Zeke looked grave.

By the time we reached Monmouth Street the cab was too hot to bear. I pressed some notes into the driver’s hand. He handed one back to me. After a moment, Nick squeezed my hand.

“For the pretty song,” he said. “Bless you, love.”

“Thanks.”

But I left it on the seat. I wouldn’t accept money for a memory.