The Writer Asks Questions
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” Mrs. McCarthy said, clasping her hands together. “He came over yesterday to have tea – with me and Seamus – and his nose just started spoutin’ blood.”
Oh, God. This isn’t good.
“I have to go!” I said, wiping my hands across my face.
“Don’t fret,” Mrs. McCarthy answered me, a familiar, stern tone coming into her voice. “You have to get a – rested first, and then you can go.”
“Arrested?” Raine’s head popped up like a jack – in – the box.
“No, not arrested, idiot,” I mumbled, not in the mood. “Rested. As in ‘siesta.’”
“Oh…”
“Come, come!” Mrs. McCarthy started ushering us towards her door – which was still painted a carmine red. How hasn’t it chipped after all these years?
“I’ll put you up by the fire; Seamus just got his new mead today – I’ll pamper you up. Come on, what are you waiting for?”
“You still brew mead?” I asked, my mouth hanging open.
”’Course we do!” Mrs. McCarthy answered, still pushing. ”’Tis a family tradition!”
Some things never change.