my feet into a pair of wool socks, and slipped out of my room and into the parlor, expecting to find Eoin inspecting packages beneath the tree. I found Maeve stoking the fire instead, her tongue between her teeth, a smudge of soot on her nose.
“Are you and I the first ones up?” I whispered, feeling like a giddy child.
“Oh no, miss. Eleanor, Moira, and Mam are in the kitchen. Dr. Smith, Mr. Collins, my brothers, and a dozen others are in the yard.”
“In the yard?” I hurried to the window, peering through the clinging mist and halfhearted dawn. “Why?”
“Hurling, ma’am! They’ve got quite a match going. My brothers were so excited they didn’t sleep a wink. Last Christmas, Doc gave them hurling sticks of their own and promised them they could play with the grown-ups this year. He had a wee stick made for Eoin too. He’s out there now, probably making a nuisance of himself,” she grumbled, and I was reminded of the old woman she would become, the Maeve with thick glasses who said she knew Anne well and who called Eoin a scamp.
“Eoin’s outside?”
She nodded and sat back on her heels, dusting her hands on her apron.
“Maeve?”
“Yes, miss?”
“I have something for you.”
She smiled, the fire forgotten. “For me?”
I went to the tree and took a heavy wooden box from beneath it. It was lined and quilted to protect the fragile items inside. I handed it to Maeve, who held it reverently.
“It’s from Dr. Smith and me. Open it,” I urged, smiling. I’d seen a tea set displayed in Kelly’s pawnshop and had recognized the delicate rose pattern. When I told Thomas the story, he had insisted on buying the entire set, complete with saucers, a pitcher, and a sugar bowl with a spoon.
Maeve gingerly opened the box, prolonging the anticipation for as long as she could. When she saw the little teacups nestled in pink satin, she gasped, sounding like the young lady she was becoming.
“If you would like a hurling stick of your own, I can arrange that too,” I murmured. “We girls shouldn’t miss the fun, just because we’re ladies.”
“Oh no, miss. Oh no. These are so much better than a silly stick!” She was panting in delight, touching the petals with soot-stained fingers.
“Someday, years from now, when you are grown, a woman from America, a woman named Anne, just like me, will come to Dromahair, looking for her family. She’ll come to your house for tea, and you will help her. I thought you might need a tea service of your own for when that day finally comes.”
Maeve stared at me, her mouth forming a perfect O, her blue eyes so wide they filled her thin face.
She crossed herself as if my predictions had frightened her. “Do you have the sight, miss?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re so clever? My da says you are the smartest lass he’s ever met.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the sight . . . not exactly. I am just a storyteller. And some stories come true.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to mine. “Do you know my story, miss?”
“Your story is a very long one, Maeve,” I said, smiling.
“I like the big books best of all,” she whispered. “The ones with dozens of chapters.”
“Your story will have a thousand chapters,” I reassured.
“Will I fall in love?”
“Many times.”
“Many times?” she squeaked, thrilled.
“Many times.”
“I’ll never forget you, Miss Anne.”
“I know you won’t, Maeve. And I won’t ever forget you.”
I dressed quickly, loosely braiding my hair and pulling on a dress, my boots, and a shawl, not wanting to miss a chance to watch the match. I’d been raised by an Irishman but had never seen hurling even once in my life. They wielded sticks, their faces fierce in the morning mist. They darted and dashed, driving a small ball from one end of the grass to the other. Eoin wielded his own stick, though he was relegated to the sidelines with a small ball that he hit and then chased over and over again. He ran to me when he saw me exit the house; his nose was as red as his hair. Thankfully he wore a coat and a cap, though his hands were icy when I reached down to clasp them.
“Merry Christmas, Mother!” he crowed.
“Nollaig shona dhuit,” I answered, kissing his cherry cheeks. “Tell me, who’s winning?”
He wrinkled his nose at the men roaring and trampling over one another, their shirtsleeves rolled, their collars unbuttoned.