Page 21 of Surrender
Gwen pushed open the front door and stepped into the pub, the soft clunk of the door echoed behind her. It took a second for her eyes to adjust from the sunlight to the dim, golden glow inside. The place wasn’t crowded, just a scattering of locals nursing pints, laughing in the low, easy way of people who didn’t have anywhere else to be.
The place smelled faintly of hops and polished wood, and something savory coming from the kitchen—maybe beef stew or roasted chicken. Gwen couldn’t place it.
The pub had clearly been renovated, but not in a way that stripped the place of its soul. The original stone walls stood proudly with their uneven texture catching the light in a way that made everything feel older and warmer. Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, their age and grain preserved rather than sanded away or painted over. She spotted old black-and-white photos hung in a line along one wall—snapshots of the pub through the years, filled with laughing faces and raised glasses.
And that bar…
It was a piece of craftsmanship. Gleaming wood worn smooth with age and care. It was the kind of bar that had stories soaked into it and someone had lovingly restored it. Gwen couldn’t help but wonder if that someone had been Keefe O’Brian himself.
She inhaled deeply. The place was warm but not just in temperature. It had a feel. A hum beneath the surface, like something alive. It was the kind of place where you could sit for hours and forget the rest of the world existed.
In the far corner, a trad session was already underway. Two fiddlers, a bodhránist, and a guitarist sat clustered in chairs, their instruments and pints jostling for space on the table in the center. They weren’t performing, not really. There was no stage, no spotlight, just music for music’s sake. A rolling, rhythmic pulse that filled the space.
Gwen felt it before she realized she was tapping her foot.
She stopped herself.
No. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself.
She was here for answers.
Alert again, her eyes scanned the room,. She couldn’t afford to let the atmosphere lull her into comfort. She didn’t know these people. Didn’t know what kind of trouble might be tucked behind one of those smiles or folded into the corners of this charming little pub. If there were secrets to be found, they wouldn’t be by someone wooed by music and cozy walls.
She slipped toward an empty stool near the far end of the bar. Out of the way. Not too obvious.
Time to blend in. Time to start listening.
And most of all—time to remember who she was.
Or, at least, who she was pretending to be.
Gwen took a seat, choosing the stool with a clear view of the room. She set her bag down on the seat beside her and folded her hands in her lap, trying to look casual. Normal. Like a perfectly average visitor stopping in for a pint.
Before she could even glance over the menu chalked on the wall, the door behind the bar swung open with a thud, and a woman in an apron emerged from the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder.
“I’d rather feed my foot to a hungry dog!”
Her voice rang out clear and unapologetic, laced with amusement rather than anger.
“Love you too, Soph!” a man called back from somewhere unseen.
The woman with warm skin, a sharp ponytail, and flour dusting the side of her black top, shook her head as she walked toward the bar. She wore no name tag, but Gwen didn’t need one to know who she was.
Sophie O’Brian.
She moved with an easy confidence, like someone who knew every creak of the floorboards and every regular by name. Her eyes swept the room out of habit as she reached the bar then landed on Gwen.
Suddenly, panic rose.
Sophie gave her a friendly smile, but it faltered just a touch. “You all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Gwen blinked. “What?”
Sophie tilted her head slightly, leaning one elbow on the polished wood. “Just checking you’re not about to faint on me.”
“Oh. No, I’m—” Gwen sat up straighter and gave what she hoped was a casual, breezy smile. “Sorry. I just had a long drive is all. I think I might still be seeing sheep when I close my eyes.”
Sophie chuckled. “They do tend to linger in the brain. Can I get you a drink?”
