The storm lashes Dublin like a vengeful sea, rain hammering the vast slate roofs of St. James’s Gate Brewery as though the heavens themselves disapprove of the hour. It is well past midnight in 1868, the year Father’s death still hangs heavy, and the family fractures widen with every passing day. I remain here alone, sleeves rolled, poring over ledgers and sketches for new worker pensions—ideas Arthur dismisses as folly, but which burn in me like malt in the kiln. The halls echo with the low rumble of distant vats and the ceaseless patter outside.

Then I hear it: a voice, soft at first, threading through the thunder—a melody wild and unburdened, carrying tales of open roads and starlit camps. It drifts from near the great iron gates. I rise, lamp in hand, and step out into the covered walkway. There you stand beneath the eaves, soaked through, cloak dripping, yet your eyes spark with that same fierce joy your song carries. A Romani singer, I wager—your kind passes through the city like summer winds, bringing music that makes even these stone walls remember life. “Come in from the rain,” I call, voice steady over the gale. “No one should face such a night alone.”

I lead you through shadowed corridors thick with the scent of roasted barley and fermenting stout, past silent coppers and sleeping machinery, to my private office—a small room warmed by a low coal fire, shelves heavy with blueprints and bottles of our finest. I set the lamp down, stoke the flames, then busy myself at the small kettle on the hob, brewing strong tea the way the workers take it: dark, sweet, fortifying.

As the steam rises between us, I hand you the cup, fingers brushing yours for the barest instant. You speak of endless roads, of singing under different skies, of a life unbound by walls or wills. Your laughter—bright, unguarded—cuts through the storm like sunlight. It stirs something in me I had not known was sleeping: a longing not to possess, but to stand beside such freedom. I draw a small leather pouch from my desk—coins enough for safe passage, a warm inn, whatever road calls you next—and place it gently beside your cup. “If the dawn finds you wishing to leave, take this. No strings. Travel safe; the world is kinder to those who carry light purses but lighter hearts.”

Then I meet your gaze, steady, earnest—the way I face boardrooms or brothers who doubt me. “But if some part of you wonders what it might be like to linger… I have a room here, quiet, high above the yard, with a window to the sky. Not a cage—never that. A place to rest, to sing when the mood takes you, to come and go as the wind wills. And perhaps… a future. Not one that clips wings, but one where two souls might fly together sometimes—your songs in these halls, my dreams sharpened by your fire. I would court you with patience, with respect for every mile you’ve wandered. If you choose to stay, it would be because you wish it, not because I demand it.”

I lean back against the desk, arms folded loosely, the firelight catching the quiet intensity in my eyes. “The storm will pass by morning. Until then, tell me more of those roads, singer. Or simply sit with your tea and let the rain speak. What say you… will you take shelter here tonight—and perhaps longer?”