Page 43 of The Scald Crow

“Let’s talk about it.” She planted her palm on my forehead.

Dear Breda, she deserved better.

“No.” I caught the server’s eye for another refill.

“Touchy. Touchy. Well, I’ll leave you to it, aye?” Breda left me to drown in my sorrows.

I couldn’t say I blamed her.

* * *

Saoirse

I ran the brush through my hair for the umpteenth time while the bathroom mirror stared back. Water dripped from the leaky tap, echoing throughout the tiled chamber. Spending that much time with the O’Donnells hurt. I had longed for that sense of belonging my entire life—the laughter, the noise. Only to have it pulled out from under me when Ciarán vanished. It was Da and me from when I was seven years old. He had done his best raising a wee lass, but it was hard.

“Saoirse? What are you doing?” Breda rushed into the first available stall. “You’ve been out of sorts all day. What’s going on?”

“Is it that obvious?” I popped open my lipstick tube and touched up my crimson lips. “I shouldn’t have come. Everyone is so nice. It hurts.”

“You’re part of us, Saoirse. It will always be so.” She washed her hands and then ripped the paper towel from the dispenser. “I’m proud of you. Running that pub. All of it. BringingCeilidhback…gets people out at night instead of glued to the telly. Serving food was bloody brilliant. ’Bout time Brandy’s had some competition.”

“I guess there’s that.” I turned sideways, tugging my shirt sleeve. I smoothed my short skirt and plucked lint from my black stockings. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always. What is it, luv?” She grabbed my lipstick and smeared the vibrant shade over her lips. “Hmm, what do you think?”

“Nice. You’ve got too much there.” I handed her a tissue.

“C’mon, Saoirse. Spill the tea.” She plunged her hand inside her black V-neck, adjusting her bra strap.

My mouth dried. She would think I’d lost my mind if I said the words aloud. “I think Ciarán is alive.”

“Did the crystals tell you?” She didn’t even blink. She knew me too well.

“No.” I hung my head. Since when did a witch of my caliber believe in hearsay? Colm’s visit replayed in my mind. Charged. Anguished. Another level of pain.

“Then what?” She grabbed my hairbrush, proceeding to straighten her snow-white curls.

“It’s not wishful thinking. It’s something Colm said.” I turned from the mirror and leaned on the counter.

“When were you talking to Colm? Want a candy?” She searched through her handbag.

“He came by the pub. He talked about Ciarán. Accusing me of the same old shite. But then. I can’t explain it. He wanted to know about Calla. He says she’s a Faerie.”

“And you believed him?” Her black eyes flashed as she handed me a clove candy.

“There’s more. He said Calla spoke to Ciarán at the wake.” I swallowed hard.

“Are you serious? You are, aren’t you?” Her words garbled together. She dropped her arms to her sides and looked at me.

“Yes.” Pandora’s box had been opened. I could never close it again.

“A Faerie? Aye, makes sense.” Her tongue played with the candy. “Jaysus, fecking Christ.”

“What?” I stepped back. When Breda was on a roll, you gave her the floor.

“Did you hear Connor playing the ukulele?” She planted her hand on her hip.

“Yes,” I recalled the lively tune the boy played.

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