Screw Grey, she thought. These old tunes were as valid as the music he’d been talking about. They were just as inclusive as what you’d hear at any powwow. Because, really, how many kinds of music could appeal to as disparate a crowd as they had in here tonight? There was Tommy and Joe—the two old mechanics in their coveralls leaning against the back wall—the small-town Goths happily pogoing right in front of the stage, and every sort of person in between. The big difference was that the people in here were having fun tonight. Grey didn’t look like he even knew the meaning of the word.

She felt like calling his name and bringing him back to see for himself what she’d been trying to explain to him, except he’d just bring her down again, so why bother? Instead she let herself fall into the music, not coming up for air until they were on their final encore.

“Well, you cheered up,” Siobhan said as they were packing away their fiddles and whistles.

Lizzie nodded. “Hard not to. God, I love this music.”

“So what happened earlier?”

Lizzie glanced at where Andy was putting away his own instruments. Con was already at the merchandise table where a line had formed that was happily long and crowded. All four of them would man the merchandise table now so that folks could get their CDs autographed by the full band.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said. “We should go be famous.”

Siobhan laughed. That was their line for the momentary buzz they got from signing CDs.

“I’m going to put out a solo CD,” she told Lizzie, “so I’ll get to be even more famous than you.”

“I’ll put out two.”

“I’ll write a book as well—a tell-all revealing all your dirty secrets.”

“I need to have some first.”

Siobhan shrugged. “I’ll just make them up, then.”

“Make sure one of them includes Martin Hayes.”

“No way. I’m saving him for myself.”

Laughing, they joined the others at the merchandise table.

It took a while to get through the line that had formed, autographing CDs and answering questions, but a half-hour after they’d finished their last song and gotten down from the stage they were finally done. Andy and Con ordered whiskeys from the bar and took them to the table where Liam McNamara, the whistle player they’d met last night, was sitting. He’d returned this evening with a few friends, but only one of them, a fiddle player named Neil Flynn, had stayed in hopes of another after-hours session.

“You’re not heading off again, are you?” Andy asked Lizzie as the two women started to leave the bar.

“We’re just changing,” Siobhan assured him.

Lizzie nodded. “So, you can order us whiskeys, too.”