Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor
takeaway cup. She could hardly argue with that. She held up her finger. “Let me have a word with Eoin.”
“Grab your Wellies,” Dara said. “We’re going to need them.”
* * *
Siobhán gazed out the car window, taking in the soft hills glowing underneath the summer sun, dotted with grazing cows, fat sheep, and rocky hedges. She was happy to let Macdara drive. Better he focus on the road than her naked ring finger. Ballysiogdun was a long enough drive, and if she didn’t find a way to keep him occupied, she feared he’d try to return to their earlier argument. One cappuccino hardly sufficed as enough fuel for his grudges. Luckily, she had the perfect excuse—she was dying to know more about this mysterious cousin who had summoned him.
Macdara cleared his throat. “Have you told anyone about our engagement?”
Her efforts had been in vain. “I whisper it to the stars at night.”
“Do you now? I suppose I should count m’self lucky.”
“The Little Dipper approves, but the Big One says the jury is still out.” She paused, and when he didn’t laugh she figured it was too late to stop now. “I guess that isn’t any constellation.” She laughed so hard it took her a while to realize she was the only one. Nothing. Not even a smile. Why didn’t he understand? Once she started wearing the ring it would become everybody’s business. They’d never get this time back. A secret just between them. “It’s not that I’m not chuffed to bits.”
He gripped the steering wheel, and she gripped her seat as he sped up. “You’ve changed your mind about the ring?”
“Macdara Flannery, I love that ring nearly as much as I love you.”
He frowned, and then laughed. Finally. It melted her heart just a little. “Then why?”
“Don’t you see? We’ll be hounded nonstop. ‘When is the wedding? Where is the wedding? Why are you waiting so long?’”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Wait so long.”
They had agreed not to set a wedding date. In her mind, they could be engaged for five years or more. What was the rush? Things were going well, and it was an unspoken rule that you didn’t mess with things when they were going well. She listened to the sound of the tires on the pavement, the wind whistling through the open window, and imagined she could hear the soft thwack of the windmills churning in the distance. She focused on the greenery outside. It was calming. “What is your auntie like?”
“Are you changing the subject?”
She gently shoved his shoulder. “Marrying a man with big brains, aren’t I?”
He shook his head, but she could tell he was going to leave it for now. “Well. You’ve met me mother.”
“Yes.” She had met Nancy Flannery a few times. An image of her downturned mouth and disapproving eyes came to mind. It was impossible to imagine her being thrilled with the news. No one was good enough for her son.
“She’s the pleasant one.”
“Your mam is the pleasant one?” She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. When Macdara laughed again she almost committed to marrying him whenever and wherever he wanted. His laugh always sounded like home. She would have to be careful around the subject of his mother. Nancy Flannery was a good woman. She just didn’t seem to approve of Siobhán, and it was nearly impossible to have a conversation with her about anything but Macdara. The Irish mammy and her golden boy. Like a boomerang, the subject always came back to him. Given he was her only son, and Siobhán happened to agree that he was somewhat wonderful, she could hardly blame Nancy Flannery for wanting only the best for him. Nancy Flannery’s dreams for her son didn’t include a much younger woman and her five siblings, struggling to make a go of it. Siobhán had a feeling Nancy also didn’t approve of Siobhán becoming a guard. Life was hard enough without the weight of other people’s expectations.
“I wonder whose feathers Aunt Ellen has ruffled this time,” Macdara said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they sang along to an old Christy Moore CD. “ ‘I stumbled into a fairy ring and jeezuz I couldn’t get out. . . .’”
“She’s a feather ruffler is she?”
“Aye. More accurately, she’s a feather plucker. Her entire life she’s rubbed folks the wrong way. As a schoolteacher, it was rumored she was worse than the worst of the nuns.” Siobhán shivered as she always did when school and nuns were mentioned in the same sentence. “I have no idea why they’ve moved to Ballysiogdun. There must be a story there, but they aren’t telling it.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Siobhán felt a tingle. Stories. Secrets. How she loved them. As long as they weren’t hers.
* * *
The rest of the ride passed pleasantly as they sang and chatted. Before she knew it, over an hour had flown by. Up ahead a weathered sign on the side of the road welcomed them to Ballysiogdun. Just beyond it the narrow road ended abruptly. A large tree lay across the roadway, blocking their progress. Macdara pulled to the side and parked in a grassy embankment. “Guess we’re here.”
“Look.” Beyond the tree, a crowd of people were standing in the middle of the road. There must have been twenty or more. Voices rang out, and she swore she heard multiple people say something about a fairy ring. Given they’d just listened to Christy Moore crooning about one, Siobhán couldn’t help but shake her head at the parallel.
Siobhán was familiar, of course, with fairy paths, and fairy rings, and fairy forts, and fairy trees. Fairies were a part of Irish folklore, and made for rich stories around the fireplace, mythical tales in books, and of course song lyrics. Some of the fairy forts were stunning archaeological sites and protected under Irish law. Most Irish didn’t believe in fairies, but a certain amount of respect was due. Why mess with a fairy ring or a fairy fort or a fairy tree? Wisdom said even if a fairy tree was in the middle of good grazing land and it would be easier if it was cut down, it was better to leave well enough alone. Even some roadways had been altered to go around fairy trees rather than take them out. Too many tales abounded of those who went on to disturb them and came into grave misfortunes, including death. Even bringing the branch of a fairy tree inside your home was considered bad luck by some, but she knew other families who always had hawthorn sticks in their home. There was no one-size-fits-all especially when it came to superstitions.
Siobhán exchanged a look with Macdara. “Did you hear them say something about a fairy ring?”
Macdara nodded. “I was afraid of this.”
“You were?”
“This is a small village. Some, according to the rumors, believe in . . . the Little People.”
“The Little People?” She’d heard all the terms, of course, the caution that fairies did not wish to be called fairies, and one should respectfully refer to them as the Little People, or the Hill People, or the Good People, or the Good Folk. She just never knew Macdara was in that camp. What else didn’t she know about the man she was supposed to marry? “Macdara Flannery. Do you believe in fairies?”
“Of course not.” He shifted his baby blues away from her.
“Sounds like it to me.” She was thrilled to have something to tease him over. Ammunition for the next time she was tasked to lighten one of his moods. The secret was never to push it too far.
“I believe in leaving well enough alone.”
As did she. And why shouldn’t they honor the tales of yore? People all over the world did all sorts of superstitious things. They avoided walking under ladders, feared black cats, tossed salt over their shoulders. Who’s to say it wasn’t doing something to balance your luck?
Macdara stepped out of the car, and Siobhán grabbed the sack she’d brought