by Tee Morris
*****
A pall fell over Galway as dusk settled.
In the carriage Caity had flagged down, Miss Snow rummaged through her valise. “According to writings, Cromm Crúaich was either the most important god or one highly sought after by the High Kings of old.”
Caity listened quietly, her chilled hands clasped between her knees. She was forced to hunch in the carriage, lest her head bump the top of it when the wheels found a rut in the street they navigated.
“The story goes that he would claim the firstborn in exchange for wealthy harvest, or something of the sort.” Miss Snow pulled a number of small vials from a leather pouch, slotting them into place upon a belt with loops meant to carry them. “On that hill you mentioned—”
“Magh Slécht.”
“The world abhors a know-it-all, Miss Kennedy.”
Caity flushed.
Miss Snow wrapped the belt about her waist and returned her attentions to the valise. “On that hill were twelve stone figures, and legend has it that a particular High King and three-quarters of his men died when worshipping at that place.”
Caity’s mind raced, slotting in pieces of information the same way her da had taught her to the cogs and gears of the tinker toys together. “You mean to say that something is causing the firstborn to sicken and die?”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Miss Snow replied, withdrawing a wicked little pistol from the pretty valise. She placed it into the holster on her belt, then withdrew another. This, she handed over, carved handle first. “Cromm Crúaich takes the firstborn and delivers bountiful harvests, and all we’ve got here is famine. The twelve statues are obviously represented by the twelve who live outside the bells—”
“I beg your pardon,” Caity cut in, taking the pistol as Miss Snow waved it impatiently. “The bells only matter for the Folk. Cromm Crúaich was a god, or a demon.”
“One might say the same for any creation of myth and legend.” Miss Snow eyed Caity’s hand, and the pistol held within it. “Have you never used one before?”
“A legend?”
“A pistol, Miss Kennedy, do try to keep up.” She leaned over, seizing Caity’s hand and arranging the haft of the weapon just so, curling her fingers into place. “You hold it like that, and then you fire. Aim, first, though. At a certain range, it’s impossible to miss.”
Caity looked down at the be-hatted lady, her eyes wide. “Will I be firing this at someone?”
“You might.” She tilted her head. “The Folk?” Then, Miss Snow’s eyes widened, but not in surprise. The crystalline depth of her gaze somehow managed to make her look both sage and triumphant—an appearance Caity felt sorely that she would never manage. “That’s it! Miss Kennedy, you are brilliant!”
She seized the door, swinging it open so that she could lean outside into the wind. Whatever she called up at the driver, the carriage lurched suddenly, swinging Miss Snow back against Caity and pinning them both to the seat.
Colour suffused Caity’s cheeks as the other woman laughed a husky, merry sound. With excitement clear in her eyes, she leaned over and gave Caity a warm buss on the cheek.
“We’ll make an agent of you, yet,” she promised.
Caity found herself cupping that cheek as Miss Snow once more found her own seat.
“We’re turning back for the Bell.”
“What bell?” Caity asked, feeling rather more thick-headed than she felt she should.
“No, no, Miss Kennedy, the Bell. The pub.”
“Oh!” Caity dropped her hand to clutch at the pistol in both hands, mindful to keep the snub nose pointing down. “The Bell and Badger.”
Miss Snow waved that away. “Be prepared for another fight.”
“You think so?”
“I do more than think so, my dear girl.” Miss Snow’s smile, this time, revealed a great deal of even white teeth. “I intend to ensure it.”
