It's the same old, sad story, whether Doolin or Donegal, Drumcar or Dundalk, but again, there's that brassy ring of falsehood to it, something that doesn't quite jibe with the rest of her story, but it only lasts a moment, and Colin writes it off as just another fleck in the whirling kaleidoscope of his senses.
"I don't believe in monsters, grá mo chroí," and he gives her another grin that doesn't reach his eyes, but more than makes up for it with a pearly expanse of teeth. He has to wonder if she's picked him out of the crowd for a purpose.
...But she doesn't smell like a monster, herself. Her hair stands out in the waxing gibbous jumble, the scent of a new-minted penny.