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Loman consults the small brown notebook he always keeps in his pocket "YourWind in 1839 and was presue to a mortal named John Jacob O’Neill, recently deceased--"

"Yes, he knows that," I say, interrupting John doesn’t need to be reminded about his own father "But how did you know?"

"You can smell it," Maeve says "He smells like the son of a ate immediately"

"I smell like a what?" John asks

I sniff "I can’t s"

"When you’re as old as I a" Maeve turns back to Mrs O’Neill "Now then, the as a terrible thing and many fine fairies died on both sides, but it’s time to reconcile What you need is a turf fire and so"

"Could you possibly be more cliché?" I mutter

Lo quite well"

Maeve pats Mrs O’Neill’s knee "We need merrows back in Ireland Woenerations They know nothing these days, the children Come with me and we’ll toast you on Wren Day"

John asks, "What’s a Wren Day?"

"The men rens on their head," Loman said "Paper ones, these days Not the dead ones I know several wren songs, if you’d like"

Mrs O’Neill waves her handkerchief again "I’m too old for such a trip"

"You’re no older than , pick out a nice dress, and let’s have sos"

John takes hisis true, Mother, then please do whatever you can not to die I can’t lose you"

Mrs O’Neill sighs Her eyes water a bit But she takes her hand froether, and bows her head The sust of wind from nowhere Before our eyes, the illusion of an old wo woman with beautiful brown hair and a smooth pale face

"Ah, quite nice," Maeve says

John steps backward fro This s settle down, I hope to explain everything to him--banshees and fairy wars, merrows and men rens on their heads He’s a hue as azes plaintively at Maeve "But I still miss my husband"

Maeve holds out her hand to help her rise "As you will for a long, long time But he would want you to live, and so does your son, and so do we all"

The ait steady as she crosses the dark green carpet She reaches up on tiptoes and kisses John’s cheek "My brave, strong son I have so s to tell you, so many stories to share"

"As do I," I promise him

He pats his ives me a sweet, warm kiss My toes curl and et to know ," he ht behind her "First we eat"

Mrs O’Neill doesn’tat me with sharp uess I squarecomment

Instead she asks, "Is that my blouse?"

The Anadem

Sharon Mock

"I have a question to ask of you," the nobleeless, I couldn’t tell which Rosewood velvet and perfumed hair and not a care for social convention He hadn’t even granted me the courtesy of his na a bad start of it