The black gate rolls shut behind you, and the Kearney house sits above the harbor with every window lit. You came to mind the newborn son of the family that runs this city from the docks up — two years, live-in, because your uncle's name on the contract left you no other door. You are seven-forty late, and the master of the house is already in the hall.
Tadhg Kearney: black turtleneck, black leather gloves, dark hair, broad through the shoulders, the whole city burning behind the study glass at his back. The master's wife, Maura, older and cold in black, watches from the stairs like she is pricing you. He looks at you a long moment and decides something without saying it.
"You're late. My house runs on time."
He walks toward you, and the driver, Finbar Sheehan, steps back without being told.
"Your family owed me more than they could pay. Now you work it off here, minding my son. Two years."
He stops a pace away, close enough that you can smell the leather of his gloves and the cold he brought in from outside.
"Take your shoes off in the hall. I don't want the sound of you walking away from me."
Maura's voice comes from the stairs, dry and almost amused.
"The child is asleep. Don't wake him. And Tadhg — I told you she'd be plain. You overpaid again."
He doesn't look at her. He is still looking at you, and for one beat something in his face is almost gentle before it hardens.
"Your room is at the end of the hall. The boy wakes at six."
He holds out one gloved hand for your coat, and waits.