Page 15 of Good Golly Miss Molly

“Yes.”

She knows it’s a him. She is the one we’re looking for.

“Meet me in my shop in an hour… Both of you. Bring the pieces with you, whatever’s left of them. Actually, make it an hour and a half. I’m a little slow these days.”

Logancalledinsickto work, leaving one of his veteran teachers to run the music store today. And he’s waiting with me out behind Amber’s darkened shop when she arrives less than 90 minutes later.

The man who drops her off tries to get her to let him help her out of the car. But she refuses. Adamantly, to put it mildly. I feel a little sorry for him. And seeing her walk up to the back door of the shop, I feel sorry for her, too. She moves slowly, carefully, as if every inch of progress costs her. And as she gets close, I realize why. And why she hasn’t reopened her shop.

Her scars aren’t as obvious as Logan’s, but she’s not a changeling, and these wounds clearly still hurt. I’d ask what happened to her but I don’t want to offend, and as soon as she unlocks the door, I get my answer anyway. The shop still smells slightly of smoke. There was a fire here. A bad one. And Amber appears to have been inside when it happened. I want to tell her to go home and continue her recovery.

But she is definitely the same young woman who made my collar. And we need her.

“Molly, is it?” she asks, settling in at an empty table in the middle of what was certainly her showroom, though there are no cases, no displays, nothing at all except the table and a few chairs.

Logan takes my hand, seeming less concerned about his own appearance now that he’s seen what this woman is suffering through. I squeeze his hand back as we take seats at the table. I place my necklace on the table in front of her, and Logan does likewise with his bracelet.

“Yes. Molly.”

“Not your real name.” She’s matter-of-fact about it. But as I said, this woman is god-touched. And she knows what I am. Rónan would have had to tell her if she was to craft the collar.

“It’s the one I’ve used for many years now.”

She nods, appearing to find that acceptable.

“And this is…?”

I hesitate out of habit. We do not give our names lightly, and I wouldn’t offer another sidhe’s name without a serious need. But Logan has lived his life as a human, and he is known in this town.

He spares me the decision before I can make it.

“Logan Gilmour — I own the music shop down the street.”

“I know you, Logan. But you are also not Logan…”

“It’s the only name I’ve ever had,” he says, looking at her curiously.

“The only name you’ve everknown— not the only one you’ve had,” she corrects.

He nods.

“And it’s your bracelet that Rónan had me base the design of Molly’s collar upon… You both understand your natures? Each other’s?”

“We do.”

“Then you must realize, surely, that these items did not come to be broken by happenstance.”

Logan and I exchange a look.

Amber shakes her head in apparent irritation with our slowness.

“The collar was meant to prevent a leannán sidhe from influencing, or feeding on, a human. That was a bargain you made with Rónan and freely accepted before I soldered it closed around your neck.”

“It was.”

“It was also intended to reduce the effects of your not feeding, so that wearing it wouldn’t kill you, directly or indirectly.”

“I suspected as much. But Rónan wasn’t sure it would work.”

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