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.’”


“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.

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