[Arry]

‘She’s over there having a pint, boyo. Go join her.’ Tomlin nudged Gil with his violin bow, his chin going up to point at the cask where Rowan stood. ‘We can’t have our singer moping and stewing over some pretty little git now, can we.’

Fallon and Ferrin snickered in the background. Just out of sight of Gil, Ferrin put his hand inside his tunic and beat it against his chest, as if his heart were about to burst through the material. ‘We had a bet on remember . . .?’ asked Fallon. ‘That when the darling of all the lasses fell, he’d fall hard.’ He cocked his head toward Gil whose hands were on his hips, eyes fixed on the floor, as he listened to Tomlin speak with him.

‘Go on, Gil,’ Tomlin urged him again. ‘Tis true,’ chimed in Fallon, drawing near. ‘Go on now. Be like the rest of us poor sots in love. Make a fool of yourself with a pretty girl.’ He tapped Gil with his instrument. ‘We’ll play some jigs and reels and get people dancing. Go on, see to your little darlin’.’