Otherworld
“Jenkins! I’ve got somebody you have to meet.”
Dragging Brigid behind her, Cassandra barged into the colony’s archives in search of Jenkins. A green-clad sentry was posted outside the entrance, possibly to ensure that Jenkins didn’t walk off with any rare tomes, but the guard let the two women rush right into the chamber beyond, where she was surprised to find Jenkins seated in front of … a computer?
Shelves of oldish-looking books and parchments lined the walls of a quiet, well-lit space that resembled the main reading room back at the Library, but Jenkins himself was manning the keyboard of a very modern computer terminal. Cassandra blinked at the sight, momentarily taken aback.
“A computer … in Mill Ends?”
“This is 2018,” MacDonagh commented. The chief leprechaun was settled in a plush wingback chair nearby, puffing on his pipe. “Did ye think we don’t keep up with the times?”
“And I’m hardly a dinosaur when it comes to new information technologies,” Jenkins observed as he downloaded a file onto a convenient thumb drive, “even if I do predate punch cards and magnetic tape by a considerable margin.”
“I … I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Cassandra said. “It’s just that computers never seemed your style.”
“The right tool for the right job, Miss Cillian. I had no desire to transcribe centuries of census records by hand.” Looking away from the computer, Jenkins belatedly noticed Brigid. His eyes widened as he “recognized” her, in a manner of speaking. “And this would be…?”
“‘Brigid,’” Cassandra explained, “as opposed to ‘Bridget.’” She quickly related how she had come across Brigid and what little she had learned of the woman’s history. “It’s not just me, right? She does look just like the other Bridget?”
“To a striking degree,” he confirmed. “You are by no means mistaken.”
“I knew it!” she said. “So what’s the explanation?”
“A few theories come to mind.” Jenkins eyed Brigid speculatively. “Tell me, are you familiar with the concept of changelings…?”
Before he could elaborate, an agitated leprechaun dashed into the archives. “Sir!” he addressed MacDonagh. “Forgive the interruption, but I bring dire tidings!”
MacDonagh sprang to his feet. “Tell me.”
The messenger glanced warily at Cassandra and Jenkins, then whispered his news into MacDonagh’s ear. The elfin chieftain stiffened in shock. His ruddy face went pale.
“You don’t say?” he gasped. “’Tis worse than I feared!”
Cassandra didn’t like the sound of this. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Another murder?” Jenkins guessed. “Another pot of gold stolen?”
MacDonagh nodded grimly. “Just that, and no longer distantly across the ocean. Word has come of another such atrocity … in Pittsburgh, no less!”
“Pittsburgh?” Cassandra was stunned by the news. “Here in America?”
“The very same, which is far too close for comfort.” MacDonagh reacted immediately to the news, firing off orders to his subordinates. “Seal all gates! Double the guards and enhance all glamours and defenses! Let none leave or enter until the danger is passed!”
Let none leave?
“Hold on!” Cassandra said. “You don’t mean us, do you?”
“My apologies, good lady, but I can take no chances where the safety of my domain is concerned. Mill Ends must be locked up tight for the duration, so I’m afraid ye and yer distinguished escort shall have to remain our guests for a wee bit longer than anticipated.”
Jenkins rose from his seat to confront MacDonagh. “Prisoners, you mean.”
“Honored guests,” MacDonagh maintained. “Unless ye choose to press the issue, which would be ill-advised on your part.”
The sentry from out in the hall stepped into the doorway, his fist gripping a sturdy shillelagh. The messenger dug in his heels beside MacDonagh as well, glowering sternly at Cassandra and Jenkins. The message was obvious if unspoken: the visiting humans were already outnumbered, and that wasn’t even counting the entire colony of leprechauns in the burrow beyond. Cassandra found herself regretting that they weren’t small enough to drop-kick—and that Baird wasn’t around to kick some leprechaun butt.
“But, sir,” Brigid protested, “they wish only to return to their own world.”
“Keep your peace, foundling,” MacDonagh admonished her. “My decision is final.” He stepped toward Cassandra and Jenkins and held out his palm. “Your talismans, please.”
Jenkins coldly swept his gaze over MacDonagh and his men, as though weighing the odds, before grudgingly removing the four-leaf clover from his lapel and surrendering it to MacDonagh, who took Cassandra’s sprig as well.
“Is he confiscating our passports?” she asked.
“More or less,” Jenkins said, “while taking away our ability to see through whatever illusions might be concealing the exits.”
“’Tis exactly so.” MacDonagh tucked the clovers in his vest pocket for safekeeping. “Neither ye nor anyone one will be able to find their way in or out of Mill Ends until the danger is passed.” He offered them a conciliatory smile. “But please don’t feel too inconvenienced. Fitting quarters will be prepared for youse, and ye may count on us to make yer stay as comfortable as possible.”
Cassandra wasn’t feeling it.
“For how long?” she demanded.
A pained smile greeted her query. “No longer than necessary.”
“By mortal standards, that could be a very long time,” Jenkins said, discreetly pocketing the thumb drive on which he had downloaded the leprechauns’ records. “And I’m afraid we don’t have years to spare, let alone centuries.”
Cassandra did a double take. “Did you say centuries?”
“Again, my apologies,” MacDonagh said. “’Tis a pity, but there’s nothing to be done.”
We’ll see about that, Cassandra thought.
Visiting Otherworld was one thing, but dancing a jig for a century or two was not on her bucket list. The Library was waiting for her, along with the rest of her life.
“I’m so sorry,” Brigid said. “Ye should have never come here.”
“Would you believe I volunteered?”