Free The Irish Lover by Lila Dubois Page A

Glenncailty. She was also, as far as Caera knew, the only person
to ever have an actual conversation with Mr. O’Muircheartaigh, the
owner.
    “Everything’s ready. Parking, signage,
photography for our website and promotional materials, and
accommodations for the musicians. The TV crew is handling the tech
work.”
    “I spoke with Sorcha—it seems most of the
musicians have arrived and are checked in.”
    Caera nodded. “Paddy Fish and the American, who
Paddy is picking up, are the last two. They should be here—” Caera
looked at her watch, running through the mental timetable she’d
been working out for months, “—in the next hour.”
    “Brilliant job. I’m going to check with the
kitchens. I want everyone to have a choice of eating in the dining
room or the pub. If you see any of the performers, please apprise
them of our amenities. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to
help.”
    “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
    Caera watched her boss heave the
one-hundred-year-old wood door open, letting in another swirl of
February wind. It would rain tonight. She could smell it. She
turned back, tipping her head to the exposed rafters two stories
above. A combination of nerves and sadness filled her—nerves that
the event would go smoothly, that Finn’s Stable would show well on
television. Sadness because she could almost hear the music that
would fill it—the rill of fiddle, strum of guitar and the passion
of voices singing of times both good and bad, lost and hoped for.
Singing of the free birds that fly beyond prison walls.
    ****
    “I want to do a pre-sound check test, to make
sure everything’s working. Go get one of the artists from the
hotel.” The producer, who was clearly talking to his sound tech,
was speaking just loud enough for Caera to hear. She was in her
office, a large square room off the dovecote-turned-storage, which
she shared with Rory and an odd assortment of supplies.
    Jumping from her desk, she hurried into the
main building. “I have a few instruments here. I can test the sound
for you.”
    Please, just for one moment, let me
pretend.
    The producer and technician both looked over.
“Good enough, then we don’t need to bother anyone until sound check
tomorrow morning.”
    Caera hustled back into her office, grabbing an
acoustic guitar. The wood was smooth and cool in her hands, the
tiny ribbing of the strings familiar but almost unfelt under her
heavily calloused fingertips. Pushing back the sleeves of her
sweater, she followed the technician’s instructions, moving between
the seats they’d set up on the stage, angling her body towards the
guitar-height mics so they picked up the simple tunes she strummed
out.
    The mics were barely necessary. For a
rectangular building, Finn’s Stable had excellent acoustics—she’d
even had acoustic tiles strategically placed on the backsides of
the rafters to stop the sound from echoing. Since they were
recording the event for a TV special, they had to have the mics,
but Caera always liked it best when the music was natural, filling
the old stone walls with pure sound, unfiltered by
electronics.
    “Everything’s working. Thanks,
Caera.”
    “Happy to help.”
    “You play well. Going to audition to play
backup for some of our stars?” The producer grinned at her. Caera
tried to return the smile, but it felt more like she was gritting
her teeth.
    “No, I play for myself.”
    “Ah, well.”
    The TV crew headed towards the door and Caera
took her guitar back to her office. When she heard the door close,
she carefully lifted her harp from the space of honor and carried
it into the stable.
    ****
    Tim looked up from where he knelt behind the
last row of chairs, his fiddle case open on the floor in front of
him. A dark-haired woman emerged from a side entrance, carrying a
harp. He rose, prepared to offer his help, but she carried it
easily, curled arms cupping the sides as she walked sideways. She
set it on the stage and took a seat. Now it was