About the book
Bloom and Brine
The house woke in layers: pipes first, then the low throat-clearing of the kettle, then the soft lamp in the hall throwing lemon-coloured light across the runner Ava kept bunching with her socks. Niamh moved through it all before dawn with the alert, practised quiet of a woman who could not afford a sloppy morning. She liked those first minutes because nobody wanted anything yet.