As we continued toward the back of the Village, mobile homes were replaced by new-ish houses set back at the furthest end of the clearing. Travelers jumped on any opportunity to display their success to one another but didn’t look kindly on drawing the attention of outsiders. If country people saw all these fancy houses, it wouldn’t be long before questions would be asked about where we got all that money, and questions like that were usually followed by visits from the cops.

Around three-dozen houses had been built over the past 30 years, and like our weddings, they were each larger and more elaborate than the last. One house, the largest mansion in the Village and home to the Sheedys, had a façade of bright red brick interspersed with chunks of black coal that glared in the sunlight.

There were still trailers in this part, but these were usually reserved for in-laws or elderly parents, purchased as a sign of devotion by successful children. They sat scattered around the mansions like foothills at the base of mountains, attached to the larger buildings by the power lines that stretched between them.

I looked away from the window when the truck slowed a second time. A small trailer sat off to the side of the clearing, like it was ashamed to be seen in broad daylight. And it was right to try to hide itself away. Even the most modest mobile home was a palace compared to this tiny travel trailer with its hitch propped up on a pile of cinderblocks. Several yards away was a seafoam green house, larger than some but humble compared to the ones built in the last ten years. The same umbilical lines of power connected this house to the tiny trailer. Even though Jimmy Boy and I tried to keep the exterior of the old place in good condition, its bare lawn and empty flowerbeds were as good as a neon vacancy sign flashing outside a motel.

We pulled to a stop next to an old picnic table. When I was a kid it had been bright red, but the sun had bleached it to a faded brick color and no one had taken the time to do anything about it. I swung the door open and climbed down from the cab. Jimmy Boy made a beeline for the trailer, the door banging shut behind him. That morning, the leg of our foldout table had thrown in the towel and collapsed under our breakfast dishes. I’d hoped the mess would finally convince Maggie it was time to move back into the house and have some real furniture, but she’d just set herself to cleaning up and shooed us off to the hardware store.

Instead of going inside to help, I settled myself on the faded red bench and rested my back against the picnic table’s edge. I stretched my legs out across the patch of grass in front of me and tried to imagine what tonight’s party would look like. In years past, the bride’s family would rent a fire hall or hotel ballroom for the reception, but that was before the clan’s reputation as “a bunch of rowdy gypsies” got us banned from every rental space in St. Tammany Parish.

“Back so soon?”

I turned, startled by the voice behind me. It was all brogue without a hint of slow, Southern drawl. Maggie emerged from around the side of the trailer. Our massive wolfhounds, Yeats and Beckett, flanked her, obediently keeping pace as she strode across the lawn. Their wiry coats were a gleaming variety of blacks and grays, but each had a twin patch of white at his chest as if they’d lain down in a puddle of bleach. The mud on Maggie’s long skirt and the basket of lavender she carried on her wrist told me she’d been digging in her garden out behind the trailer.

My mam was different from the other women in the Village—really from any woman I’d ever seen. To be honest, I’d never been certain of her age, but the skin of her face was still as smooth as it had been when I was small enough to sit in her lap and tangle my fingers in the charcoal curls that hung loose around her shoulders. She seemed older and wiser than any woman in the Village, but still as young and spirited as any girl. She paused and turned her face up to the sun. When she looked at me again, something flashed in her green eyes, and I was immediately suspicious. It was a look I’d become familiar with; it meant she had a secret she was anxious to reveal that I might not be thrilled to hear.

In spite of my sudden discomfort, I smiled at her. “Hey, Maggie.” I almost never called her mam anymore. She was simply Maggie to everyone who knew her. “Just got back. Jimmy Boy is already inside working on the table.”

“And you’re out here lazing around instead of helping.”

I shrugged. “There’s hardly enough room for both of us to sit at the table, let alone work under it.”

“If this is going to be another conversation about living in that house, Shay, you might as well save your breath.”

She walked to the table and set her basket down. Shadowing her every movement, the dogs sat. Even in that position, they were impressive animals. Their long, narrow heads reached the height of Maggie’s ribcage.

“It’s hot today.” I scratched Beckett behind the ear, and he inched forward, nuzzling his head into my hand. Drops of saliva from his panting tongue dripped onto the knee of my jeans.

“Aye,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “It certainly is. It’ll be hard for those lasses to stay looking their loveliest when they’re melting in their fancy gowns.”

I chuckled at her. Though other Traveler women reveled in the opportunity to put on expensive dresses and decorate their hair with jeweled ornaments, Maggie had far simpler tastes. She preferred light cotton dresses, and she only ever wore one piece of jewelry: a silver pendant with three interlocking spirals hanging from a leather cord.

If she were any other member of the clan, her tendency toward simplicity would’ve been looked down on—might’ve even gotten her dragged—but Maggie was special. She was a Traveler in the truest sense—born in Ireland and still clinging to the oldest traditions of our kind.

I appreciated that she wanted to honor the old ways, but I never understood why that meant we had to live in a tiny trailer while my father’s house sat empty next to it. Still, when my father’s people had fled Ireland during the Great Famine, Maggie’s had stayed behind and struggled through it. The same strength that allowed her people to survive such a nightmare had been passed down to her.

“Speaking of the wedding,” Maggie said, drawing my attention back to the conversation. She took a seat next to me and inclined her head slightly. Both dogs stood and ambled to the shade of an oak, then collapsed with a thud at its roots. Yeats, the larger of the two, stretched his jaw in a whining yawn and settled his head on Beckett’s back.

“Yeah?” I asked cautiously.

“Little Rosie Sheedy stopped by here this morning, just after you left.”

I turned to look at her. “Yeah?” I said again, though now curiosity replaced concern. “Looking for me?”

“I believe she was, though she knew better than to say so.” Maggie wrinkled her nose. “She asked me for a love charm. Said now that her sister’s getting married, she’d like to attract her own husband.”

Maggie’s connection to the old ways meant her handcrafted charms for luck, love, fortune, or health and her herbal teas to calm nerves or promote fertility were highly coveted in the Village. It wasn’t unusual that a young woman would stop by seeking such a thing, but apparently Rosie wasn’t such a welcome visitor.

“You’d better watch your drink tonight, boyo,” Jimmy Boy said from the steps of the trailer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to mix up a love potion of her own after Maggie turned her away. You could end up with lavender and Clorox in your Guinness.”

Both dogs raised their heads. Their bodies remained motionless, though the fur at their necks bristled and their ears perked. Maggie lifted her hand without looking at them, and both dogs lowered their heads but continued to keenly observe the scene.