Chapter 16
Moira barely reached the table in her chalet and dropped all of her messages onto it. A moment longer and they would have crashed to the floor. She made a mental note to bring a basket to the market next time.
“Phew!” Breathless, she leaned against the edge of the table and shook her arms to release the cramps from carrying her load. When her breath had steadied, she turned her attention to the fire. It was burning but only just. She stoked the turf and added two briquettes.
Please let them take fire quickly.
Positioning herself onto one of the creepie stools, she stared deep into the red embers and allowed her mind to drift.
Tap, tap, tap.
Moira turned and stared at the door as though doing so long enough would allow her to see through it. She waited and listened. Nothing. She returned her attention—and her chilled fingers—to the fire.
The thumps that followed left no room for doubt. Moira pried her backside from the low, awkward stool and made her way to the door.
“Yes?” Moira said.
Moira swung the door open. “Sinead, welcome!” She stepped aside. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”
The effervecsent girl marched into the chalet and looked around. “Well, now, isn’t this just fine and dandy? I’ve never seen the inside. We all figured there’d be a cauldron and broomsticks, wha’ with the auld witch—er, Miss—McGinley havin’ lived here.” Bright red splotches climbed up her cheeks.
“Well, I’m no witch, I can assure you. Only creepie stools and books for me,” Moira said, trying to hide her smile.
Sinead gave a sheepish shrug and her gaze fell to her feet.
“Oh! I nearly forgot.” She shoved a package at Moira. “Ye left yer tea back at the market. I thought ye might be needin’ tha’ tonight, so.” She smiled and her dimples reappeared in earnest.
“Good heavens, yes. I had been waiting all day to come home and have a cuppa. I would have been one pitiful mess had you not rescued me. Join me in a cup?”
Sinead pursed her lips. “Why not? I’m sure Mammy won’t miss me for a while yet.”
Moira hung the kettle over the fire and gathered the cups, milk, and sugar.
Sinead helped herself to a seat at the table, and the two women set about getting to know each other.
“Ya know, it mightn’t be my place to say this, but ya really shouldn’t leave eggshells lyin’ about. If ya aren’t sure what to do with ’em, bring ’em to me, and I’ll feed ’em to our pigs.”
“I know they’re a bit unsightly, but I figured the rain and wind would take care of them soon enough. I’m not bothered by them.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t put them out there. I assume a bird dropped them or someone passing by did for some reason.”
Sinead whipped her head up to meet Moira’s gaze. “Wait . . . are you tellin’ me tha’ someone else put those shells there?”
“Yes.”
“Tsk! I don’t like that ’tall now, sure I don’t. Don’t ya know tha’ eggshells are the preferred home of”—she shifted in her seat nervously and looked around before leaning in close and whispering—“the wee faeries?” Sinead knocked on the wooden tabletop twice.
“Fairies? Oh, how lovely!” Moira clapped her hands.
“Shhhh!” Sinead bolted to her feet. “I don’t know what ye Yanks think, but here in Ar’land those t’ings are mischievous little devils. Always lookin’ for ways to make life miserable for us human folk, so they are.”
She searched the room with wide eyes, then took her seat again. Moira could feel the girl’s breath on her neck as she whispered ominously, “If you didn’t put those shells out there, someone is tryin’ to bring the faeries to ye.”
Moira’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Why?”
Sinead’s shoulders rose and fell nonchalantly. “We’re a people of blessings and curses. Not a witch-type sort o’ curse but rather wishing their enemies ill. Ya know, ‘May you have an itch but no nails to scratch with.’ That sort of t’ing.”
Moira stared at Sinead in disbelief.
Sinead continued, unaffected. “But if they don’t want to get close enough to say it to ya directly, the best way to get the job done is to set the faeries on ya.”
Sinead’s voice was low and foreboding. The fire in her eyes unnerved Moira to the core.
“But why would someone wish me ill? What have I done to anyone in this town?” She huffed and slumped her shoulders.
“I don’ know, dearie. But I’d say ye need to watch yer back and make sure ya say yer prayers. Saint Michael’s yer man for that, so he is.” She rested a hand on Moira’s shoulder and gave a little squeeze. “I’d best be off now. I’m sorry to be the one to bring ill news.”
Moira gave a weak smile to her new friend. “Good night, Sinead. And thanks.”
Did she really mean that? Was she really thankful for the strange interpretation Sinead had given her?
She made her way to the bedchamber and pulled her small, worn Bible out of the dresser, searching for one of her favorite passages. Now more than ever she needed a reminder of who was truly in control, even when everything seemed to spiral into confusion. She thumbed through the worn pages, the smells of home wafting up from within, and finally landed on the book of Romans.
She read aloud: “‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
She clamped her eyes shut and clutched the book to her breast. “Please, God, let this be true in my life.”
Deep within, strength began to build again. The more she rolled the words in her mind, the more peace settled in her heart.
God had brought her here, and He had a purpose in that. Moira wasn’t going to let some superstition distract her from whatever it was God was going to do in her life and in this village.