human that he could take it from her.”
“Why’d he take it?” Eden asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Nuala said. “Stop asking questions.”
She picked up the pace, dragging Eden behind her. She was confident the task wouldn’t take long. There was nothing stopping her from bewitching the whole village if she had to. They walked along the main road until they came to a small general store. Nuala pushed the door open, and the young man at the counter looked up. His jaw was slack as he stared openly at her. Pathetic, she thought.
“Tell me where I can find Seamus Kilpatrick,” she said, not wasting time on pleasantries.
The young man’s eyes glazed over and he said, “Old Stumpy? You’ll be finding him down at the pub, I reckon, havin’ his lunch. Eats there every day, so he does.”
“Where’s the pub?” Nuala asked.
“Just down the road,” the man said, pointing.
She spun on her heel and left the store, dragging Eden by the hand. “Can we get some lunch too?” Eden asked. “I’m starving!”
“I said, later!” Nuala hissed. She saw the sign for the Slug and Lettuce up ahead. She could hear Eden sniffling as she trailed along behind her, but ignored it.
They stepped through the door and into a crowded room. More than one set of eyes lingered on them as Nuala led Eden toward the bar through a maze of tables and stools. Great barrels of ale and other brews sat behind the bar, and a large orange cat rubbed itself against Eden’s legs. Eden bent to pet it while Nuala ordered the barman to point out “Old Stumpy.”
“Aye, he’s just in the corner there, the gent with the hat and cane,” the barman said, his head tilting in the general direction but his eyes not leaving Nuala. “What’s a young filly like you doin’ looking for a weathered ol’ chap like him, eh? Come pull up a stool and I’ll pour you a drink on the house.”
Nuala ignored him and headed in the direction he had indicated. Eden, looking mournfully back at the cat, trailed in her wake. They stopped at a table in the corner, where two old men sat together over bacon sandwiches and pints of beer. A cane leaned against one of the wooden chairs. Nuala looked at the man in the chair.
“Seamus Kilpatrick?” she asked. The man looked up at her and started, then recovered himself sufficiently to tip his hat to her.
“The very same,” he said in a soft, kind voice. Nuala leaned down and put her lips next to his ear as his companion gaped openly at both of them.
“If you want to live, you will take me to the cohuleen druith that once adorned the head of the Queen of the Merrow,” she whispered. It was an unsophisticated threat, she knew, but she didn’t have time to search his heart for his deepest, most hidden desires. Everyone wanted to live.
“Aye, aye, all right,” the old man said, slowly rising to his feet and grabbing his cane. Without saying good-bye to his companion, he shuffled through the pub and out onto the street, Nuala and Eden trailing behind him. They walked through the main part of town and up a dusty side road until they came to a small house with peeling green paint and empty window boxes. “This way, this way,” he said, as he opened the door and went inside. Nuala’s nose wrinkled and Eden sneezed when they stepped inside the house. The acrid smell of pipe tobacco hung thick in the air.
“Where is it?” Nuala asked, impatient.
“’Tis in the safe,” he said. He went to the corner of his bedroom and pulled a torn and dirty afghan off a small safe that sat on the floor. Nuala watched as he spun the dial back and forth until it clicked. He reached inside and pulled out a simple wooden box. With effort, he stood up again, holding the box.
“Show it to me,” Nuala said. Eden sat on the floor and watched.
The old man lifted the cover off the box. He put his hand in, and when he pulled it out, it looked as if it were covered in red paint. So fine was the fabric of the cohuleen druith that it clung to his flesh like a second skin. Nuala could see the knots and veins in his hand through the deep red sheen.
She reached out and swept the fabric off his hand like a cobweb. He watched, wordlessly, as