Otherworld
“Bridget?”
Cassandra made her way across the crowded grotto, weaving through the bouncing leprechauns until she reached the other redhead, who was still merrily dancing a jig to the fiddler’s music. Familiar green eyes regarded Cassandra with curiosity—and not a trace of recognition.
“Do I know ye?”
Cassandra scrutinized the dancer. Up close, the resemblance was even more striking. The woman’s hair was longer and curlier than Cassandra remembered, her accent more Irish than American, and her clothing more traditional, but there was no mistaking that face, which was the same one Cassandra had first viewed via the magic mirror back at the Annex.
“Bridget O’Neill? From Chicago?”
“Simply Brigid,” the woman said, not missing a step of her dance. “And where be Chicago?”
Not the same person, Cassandra realized. Brigid, not Bridget, but a dead ringer for the other Bridget nonetheless. Cassandra found herself hopping back and forth from one leg to another, in her best attempt at a jig, as she pondered this new mystery, which had to be another piece of a larger puzzle.
“My name is Cassandra … and I think we need to talk.”
Brigid looked intrigued. “About what, pray tell?”
“Another Bridget, who looks just like you.”
Surprise showed on Brigid’s porcelain features. “Now that sounds like a tale worth hearing.” She stopped dancing and took Cassandra’s hand. “Come with me.”
She led Cassandra to a quiet alcove at the edge of the grotto, where Brigid took a seat atop a mushroom the size of a barstool. Cassandra awkwardly situated herself atop another overgrown fungus, which felt a bit like being perched on an elevated beanbag chair. The mushroom swayed slightly beneath her weight, but Cassandra tried not to let that distract her.
“That’s better,” she said. “Not that it wasn’t nice dancing with you, of course, but I have so many questions…”
“Is it true what they say?” Brigid asked. “That ye’re from above, the mortal world?”
“That’s right, and in that world I met another Bridget, who could be your twin.”
Brigid regarded Cassandra with fascination. “How is that possible?”
“That’s what I want to know.” She looked Brigid over as closely as she could without giving her the wrong idea. No pointed ears or gossamer wings presented themselves. This new Brigid appeared just as human as the one being haunted by a banshee back in the real world; but, as Jenkins had pointed out not too long ago, appearances could be deceiving. “You’re not a leprechaun, are you?”
“I am not, but the Fair Folk have given me a home since I was a mere babe in arms, or so I am told,” she said with a chuckle. “I can’t remember that far back myself.”
“How far back?” Cassandra asked.
“Heaven only knows,” Brigid said, seemingly unconcerned. “Long enough to grow up, I suppose.”
Cassandra recalled Jenkins saying that time passed differently here, so there was no telling how long that might be in relation to the mortal world. The lack of precision annoyed the mathematician in Cassandra. There really ought to be some sort of formula for converting faerie time to mortal time.
“But how did you come to live among the leprechauns?”
“I was an orphan, they say,” Brigid answered, “lost and alone until the Folk took me in and gave me a home, here below.” A wistful sigh escaped her lips. “Make no mistake: I’m forever grateful for their kindness, but sometimes I wonder about the world I came from. Tell me more of it, please, for I confess I am fierce curious.”
Cassandra didn’t know where to begin, let alone how to figure out the connection between Brigid and Bridget. Were they simply distant relations with a strong family resemblance, or was there more to it? She remembered what Jenkins had said earlier about coincidences sometimes being anything but. Cassandra felt positive that she had stumbled onto another piece of the puzzle.
Now she just needed to find the pattern.