The women turned Bernie’s detached garage into a workshop. It would do until they could afford to open a place in town. They scrubbed the floor and gave everything a new coat of cream-colored wash, swabbed the windows, swept away the dirt and cobwebs, thinking of Colleen with each dab of paint, each dusted shelf, each clear pane. They hauled in battered tables, destined for the junkyard, made a sign for the door: “Sheer Delights, International Headquarters.” Colleen would have done the lettering if she was alive—she had the best hand. Oona did it instead, feeling as if her friend were guiding her. They hadn’t had any orders except Mrs. Flynn’s yet, but they kept sewing. They’d start small, making samples in different sizes, selling at regional craft fairs, and take it from there. Their spirits were low, but they tried to rally for Colleen, for Finn and Maeve.

The lace makers encouraged Moira to take some time off. Signs of the beating she’d taken from Cillian last week remained: the yellowish bruises on her face, the limp, and the sling on her arm. “I won’t be a mascot,” she said. “I want to work. My fingers aren’t broken, are they? I owe it to Colleen.” And she did, resting her arm on the table, a determined set to her mouth. The doctor had given her pills for the nightmares and anxiety. Cillian had left marks that went deeper than her skin.

Her children played outside, jumping off the stones, flapping their arms, pretending they could fly, the younger ones sure they’d done it, Sorcha not telling them otherwise for once, letting them think they could do the impossible. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, and Moira didn’t want to leave her, leave any of them. Sometimes Sorcha sat with the women, learning the stitches, working on a lace shoulder bag patterned with daisies—because, she said, daisies were happy flowers.

“Will we have enough done by the end of the week?” Oona wondered. That was the date of the next craft fair, held in conjunction with the celebration at the end of the Saint Brendan’s festivities.

“Enough to pique people’s interest,” Bernie said. The shelves began to fill with knickers, camisoles, and bras. “To show them what we can do.”

There was the sound of footsteps outside on the gravel. Moira jumped, her body tensing.

But it was only Aileen, arriving late. She met her sister’s gaze, shook her head slightly. Moira looked away to collect herself before turning back, as if nothing had occurred.

Aileen’s face was pale.

“What happened?” Moira asked. “Is it Rosheen again?”

“I thought we’d patched things up at the funeral, but she’s too used to being on her own. At some point, I have to let her go. I wasn’t thinking it would be so soon. She’s only sixteen.”

“Of course you’re worried,” Oona said. “It’s the mother’s lot.”

“I made some lace for her a few nights ago. I meant to tell you about it, but then—” She fell silent.

“It’s all right,” Bernie said. “Tell us now.”

She did.

“Skulls? With the lace?” Oona said. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re not turning into a Goth, are you?”

“Ailey went through a punk phase in the late seventies. Remember the short skirts and torn fishnet tights?” Bernie said.

“That was a long time ago.” Aileen stood next to the shelves. The only open seats were Colleen’s chair, painted as a memorial to their departed friend, and one next to Kate.

“The fashions come around. Leggings are in style again, ankle boots too,” said Kate.

“Please tell me that horrible polyester double knit material isn’t returning,” Bernie said. “That’s something I could do without.”

“I still have a picture of you in those mod flowered pants,” Aileen said with a half smile.

“Those awful rust-colored things?” Bernie hid her face in her hands and groaned. “I can’t believe Mam let me buy them. And to think they came from that fancy shop in Galway.”

“You thought you were hot in those pants, if I remember correctly.”

“I was hot. I was sweating. The fabric didn’t breathe,” Bernie said, adding, “What colors did you use for the skull?”

“White with silver threads, pearls for the eyes. I thought about rhinestones, but that seemed too tarty.”

“Sounds punk-Victorian,” Kate said.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, exactly.” Aileen stared at the younger woman as if seeing her for the first time.

“That’s brilliant. I bet she loves it,” Moira said. “Both because of the style and because it’s from you.”

“I just hope we can find a way to talk to each other again,” Aileen said. “I keep thinking one of these days, she’ll be gone for good.”

“No, she won’t,” Oona said.

But sometimes the teenagers did take flight, like Susan Kelly’s son, up and gone after a big row two years ago. She hadn’t heard from him since. Her marriage broke up after that, and she moved away, no one knew where, her family scattered like dust.

Aileen took the empty seat next to Kate. Usually, she did everything she could to avoid sitting there, going so far as to pointedly pull a chair to another spot around the table. But this time she didn’t. Bernie gave her a little nod, which Aileen didn’t acknowledge. Her expression seemed to say, It’s only an empty chair, isn’t it? And I need to sit down.

Kate remained wary, focusing on her work, Aileen careful too, and yet as the morning went on, they seemed to grow easier with each other, the atmosphere in those few inches that separated them tension-free for once. They might never be the closest of friends, but perhaps they didn’t have to be at odds, looking for slights and insults at every opportunity.

“Ailey,” Bernie said in a coaxing voice, “we haven’t forgotten about you: it’s your turn.”

“Oh, no—”

“Too late. It’s already done.” Oona pulled out a bundle wrapped in tissue. “Go on, open it.”

Aileen snipped the string and pulled back the paper, revealing the deco-patterned lingerie. “But how—?”

Bernie smiled. “Rourke gave me the knickers and bra he thought needed embellishing. We figured the flapper look would suit you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, yes, I do: Thank you. Thank you, for everything.”

All that day and into the evening, their fingers flew. The patterns of the lace were everywhere, if the women opened their minds and looked past the sorrow: in a horse’s mane, butterfly’s wings, blades of grass, sprigs of ivy, spiderwebs, drops of rain, the waves of the sea, the feathers of a lark, the lines on a face, in their very own hands. The lace could be anything they wanted it to be. It was the lace of dreams, the lace of their imagination. At the end of the day, they looked at their callused fingers, amazed they’d made such extraordinary things, the threads connecting each woman to the one beside her, and out into the wider world. “It’s about all of us, isn’t it?” Oona said, touching the back of Colleen’s chair. “All of us, together, still.”