A historian does not chase folklore, so I arrived in Cloverton ready to take apart the local legend of the Guardians of the Green and expose what I assumed was a tourist scam.
Rafferty ruined that plan. He owns The Lucky Hound, laughs loud enough to weaken my knees, and has decided I am his personal project despite breaking glasses, knocking things over with his hips, and carrying on a private war with the mailman.
Between parades, green beer, and brushes that never feel accidental, the chemistry is impossible to ignore, even with the warnings I cannot explain: he refuses silver, and he bristles whenever another man buys me a drink.
Science should have held when he pinned me to the pub cellar wall and called me his luck, but it did not, and I can only hope I come through the hangover intact.
