Hogwarts!AU Side Dishes

a place to dump words that aren't part of the main Hogwarts arc
== Recipe for Success ==
AKA, why there's /another wizard school in Scotland
Date: 17 March 1266; The Old House, Llangynwyd Village, Bridgend, Wales, UK
Thomas steps from the fog into the candlelight of the inn, flicks his eyes around the sparse crowd at the tables.
Rosy cheeks and red hair going grey—
"Thomas!" she calls, waving him over.
"Helga!" He skips across the room into her hug. "So good to see you again! My homeland seems to treating you well!"
She laughs, a booming sound which fills the low-ceilinged space. "Scotland has, but she's not a patch on fair Wales."
"Everyone's entitled to their own opinion."
"Agree to disagree, yes, yes," she giggles. "Now, sit, sit!"
Thomas slides onto a bench.
Helga sits, beckons the barman. "A tankard of your best for my guest and another round of your marvelous stew for us both."
The barman beams, heads to the kitchen.
"You, my dear, are a draught of sunshine."
"Coming from anyone but you, I'd call that flattery."
"I see my reputation as 'True Thomas' has bridged Britain."
"There are much worse reasons for fame, m'dear."
"I'm positively gleeful to hear!" He grins. "Integrity attracts more—and richer—patrons than my silver tongue ever did. The wider my fame, the fatter my purse."
"You missed your calling as a mercenary."
"My dear Helga, I /am a mercenary! Story-teller to the Queen of Elphame! Peerless peeker beyond the veil of time! All yours of an evening for a handful of coins or the right shiny bauble."
Helga laughs. 
The barman returns, sets a mug of ale in front of Thomas and a steaming bowl of stew before each of them.
"Thank you, good man."
The barman bobs acknowledgment, returns to his lookout near the fireplace.
Thomas picks up his spoon, waggles it at Helga. "You, though .... What use do /you have for a mercenary?"
Helga sighs into her ale. 
"It's not old Salazar again, is it?"
"It's all of them, Thomas." She sighs again, then sits straighter, squares her shoulders. "I want you to do something for me."
"For you, my dear, I'd do 'most anything."
"Open a school for the magicless children of wizards."
Thomas chokes on his mouthful of ale, manages to swallow, croaks, "What?"
"You know Salazar and his thoughts on Purity."
"Yes?"
"Now that he's gone off from Hogwarts, I fear he'll get up to mischief against the poor dears and the Muggle-borns. The rest are no help. Their only concern is for future wizards."
"You want to hide the wee ones?"
"I want to /teach them about their people, their history. They have the same right to their magical heritage as their wizard siblings."
Thomas sits back. "You've already started one school, so why not another?"
Helga puffs up with offense. "It would be disloyal to split my attention like that. That's why I'm asking /you, Thomas."
"I don't know ... I've never been much of a teacher—"
Helga slides a piece of parchment across the table. "This is a list of wizards with the necessary aptitudes and skills. I've already talked to most and they're willing to relocate for the cause."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "I suppose you've already given thought to the curriculum?"
Helga grins, heaves a rucksack beside Thomas' bowl. "Here's the course of study and texts for our History of Magic, Astronomy, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology, Muggle Studies, Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Charms courses."
Thomas gives a low whistle.
"Of course, they'll need adjustment for the lack of magic, some lessons skipped altogether, but your faculty can handle that."
"Of course."
Helga glows, takes a deep draught.
"Helga, lovely, what's the /purpose of all this?"
"Excuse me?"
"Even trained, these ones will never be accepted by most of our magic-wielding brethren. Wouldn't it be kinder to them to raise them as Muggles?"
"As a prophet, you should be looking farther ahead," chides Helga. 
"Sometimes I need a bit of a hint /where to look, m'dear."
Helga smiles. "Think of it, thusly: a whole community of magic-less wizards trained by your school. That community will have children. Some of /those children will be fully wizard. /Their parents will send them to you to educate, alongside the next generation of magicless ones."
Thomas lets his smile creep across his face. "I see the wisdom here. These students could straddle the wizard and mundane worlds and eventually close the gap that's starting to yawn."
"Exactly!" crows Helga.
Thomas rubs his palms together. "It will have to be in Scotland, you know."
"Of course. Wherever you want."
"I'll need some time to find a suitable location and make arrangements."
"Of /course."
"Is there anything else I need to hold in mind?"
"You /must keep my name /completely out of it."
"Yes, of course. Your role will be my deepest secret."
"Thank you, Thomas." Helga smiles. "I also recommend obtaining a population of those giant otters from Aethiopia."
Thomas' eyebrows climb to his hairline.
"Let's say they may be useful someday."
"I'll investigate a purchase."
"Wonderful!" Helga raises her tankard. "To True Thomas' School!"
"To my School!" he cheers, raising his.
.
== Enquiries ==
AKA, Minerva McGonagall's first assignment for the Depart of Magical Law Enforcement
Date: 25 September 1954; assorted locales around the city of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
Minerva McGonagall steps from the flames onto a stone hearth in a room decorated only with a mirror.
She straightens her hat atop her black hair, smooths down her coat, checks her boots for ashes. 
Reassured she'll make the proper impression, she puts her shoulders back, strides from the fireplace room, through the reserved section, across Gowdie and Gray's main room—with its tables surrounded by tea-sipping Muggles—out into the chill Glasgow night.
She scans the pavement for—green leaps out from the blacks and greys.
A shamrock on a lapel: the sign for which she's looking.
The slight man notices her, approaches.
She meets him halfway.
"Miss," he greets, touching the brim of his hat.
Merlin's beard, he's young.
"I'm from the Department of Law Enforcement," she says. "You are?"
"My name doesn't matter," he answers, accent almost impenetrably Glaswegian. "All you need to know's Dame Kearney sent me to meet you."
"/'Lady' Kearney."
"She tells me to call her 'Dame', I call her 'Dame'." He shrugs. "You know how it is."
"I'm a afraid I don't."
"Superiors and their honourifics."
Minerva suppresses a smile. "Surely you have a name. I need to call you /something."
He smirks up at her. "No, you don't."
Minerva frowns. "Everyone has a /name."
"Dame Kearney'll tell you what to call me." He shrugs again.
She huffs—Professor Merrythought's lessons surge up—stifles a reflexive backward step. "Well, we shouldn't keep the Lady waiting. Do we have far to go?"
"Only a few minutes by car." The vampire—but he's too small, too /young to be a monster, surely—opens the door of a black saloon, bows her inside.
She narrows her eyes.
He sighs, says low, "Dame Kearney doesn't want trouble and that's what interfering with you'd bring, aye? You're safe as houses with me."
"Why should I believe /you?"
"Because—" An old hurt flashes across his pale features and he takes a breath. "Because I'm what I am to survive and pissin' off your bosses and The Dame's a sure way to make that difficult for me."
Minerva studies him.
The vampire waits, face neutral once more, hand still on the door handle.
"Thank you," she says finally, sliding into the backseat.
He smiles, relieved, and closes the door, reappears on the other side of the car, eases in beside her. 
A nod to the driver and the car glides into traffic and threads through the streets and over the River Clyde.
She divides her attention between the city and the vampire.
"Been to Glasgow before?" he asks.
"No, I haven't."
"Well, she's not much like Edinburgh and /nothing like London. Has her own way of going."
"It seems so." Minerva side-eyes. "You've visited London."
"Yea, but I can't say as I liked it. Felt too full, ye know? Like I'd never be /welcome there."
A smile twitches around her lips. "London /does feel like that at first. She warms up to one rather quickly, though."
The vampire smiles back. "I'll keep that in mind if I'm ever looking to relocate."
"You're native here?"
"Aye. Born a few streets over that way—" He waves vaguely eastward. "—in fact. But yer not a Londoner. More like Inverness."
"Farther north, closer to Thurso."
He blinks, surprised.
"Do I not strike you as a highlander?"
"Highlander, yea, but wherever you've been's done a good job of straightening your speech. Last bloke I met from Thurso-way, we had to pass notes to understand each other."
Minerva laughs. "I suspect that has as much to do with your brogue as his."
"It /can't be me, aye? There's a hundred who sound like me for every /one talks like him," he pouts, blue eyes laughing.
But what in the name of Merlin is she doing, teasing—/flirting with a vampire? Even if he reminds her a bit of—
She shudders.
"You cold?"
"I'm fine," snaps Minerva.
The vampire holds his palms out in surrender, presses himself against the door, giving her blessed breathing space.
Minerva breathes deeply through her nose, pretends to watch the city slide by.
The vampire says nothing.
The car purrs to a stop.
The vampire hops out, opens her door.
Minerva unfolds herself, straightens her attire.
He offers a hand, guides her onto the kerb, leans in quick.
She controls the urge to recoil.
"A bit of advice 'cos I like your hat," he says. "Play it quiet with The Dame. She's gonna try t'get a rise outta you. Don't let her or she'll use it against ye."
Minerva schools her face to neutrality, nods.
The vampire gives her a brief smile, then retreats into impassivity and steers them to a restaurant.
The doorman bows low. "You are welcome to enter, Miss, Master."
"Thank you," she says.
Inside—
"May I take your coat?"
"I prefer to keep it on. This will be brief."
The vampire nods, indicates the door to the dining room.
Minerva strides across the empty space to the lone occupied table and its tenant, an impeccably-dressed woman with jet black hair, apparently in her forties.
The vampire queen studies her just as thoroughly.
"Minerva McGonagall, here on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she announces.
"Dame Malina Kearney, Laird of Glasgow-to-the-South," replies the other, inclining her head.
"Charmed."
"The same, love. Please, sit."
The young vampire pulls out a chair.
Minerva settles herself, allows him to help her shift into place. She pulls a recording quill and parchment from her bag, positions them on the table.
Kearney watches with clear interest while the other vampire takes his seat beside her.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me on such short notice, Dame Kearney."
The quill scratches away, inscribing every word.
"It's my pleasure, Minerva-dear." Kearney folds her hands. "About what would you like to speak to me?"
"The Ministry of Magic wants to know your involvement in the 'vampire hunt' of twenty-third September of this year and the events leading up to it."
"You mean the murder which sent those schoolchildren into the Necropolis thirsting for bloody vengeance on a supposed vampire."
"I do. What do you know about it?"
"All I know is it was my boy here—" Kearney clamps a possessive hand on the young vampire's shoulder. "—they were chasing that night, but he didn't kill that poor lad."
"Does he—" Minerva bobs her head toward him. "—have a name? For the case notes, you understand."
"He hasn't earned one yet." Kearney twists a bit of his blond hair around her finger. "Perhaps in ten years or so he'll be ready for that sort of independence."
Minerva sniffs. "Fine. Why are you certain he didn't kill the boy?"
"It's quite simple, love. He /can't have." Kearney smirks. "By the blood contract which binds him to me, until I name him he can't hunt without my permission and I would /never allow one of my scions—youths like him—to hunt children. It's impossible—completely beyond his ability—to break that oath."
"And you? Is it beyond /your ability?"
Kearney laughs. "It's beyond good sense. If /I break my word and hurt a child, he's free to do whatever he will. We /can't have that."
Minerva raises an eyebrow.
"He still needs my protection, dear. Why, the very first time I let him leave my side, he picked a fight with a mob and landed in hospital." Kearney clicks her tongue, takes hold of his chin, tilts his head back exposing his throat. "They did a marvelous job repairing him, don't you think?"
"Yes, you can barely see the scars. A broken jaw, was it?"
Kearney releases him, humming. "Most of his teeth, as well. It cost me a pretty penny to have him put back together."
"He must be someone special to you."
"Oh, no! He's merely something I found in the gutter and brought home to polish—"
Minerva bites down her temper.
"—but I always take good care of my toys."
"Of course," drawls Minerva.
Kearney smiles, predatory.
"Since you and your scions are not responsible for the murder, who is?"
"I have /no idea." Kearney spreads her hands.
The young vampire grimaces.
Minerva turns to him. "Do /you know?"
He startles, glances at Kearney, says, very slowly, "I have a /suspicion."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Kearney demands.
He cringes. "I didn't say 'cos it's just a guess and it's outside your holdings."
Kearney huffs. "Well, tell Minerva. Hurry up!"
"Yes, ma'am." He takes a deep breath, meets Minerva's eyes. "I'm pretty sure the dullahan lives along Dumbarton Road did it. He'll kill anyone for the right price and I heard 'im laughing when those little fu—menaces spotted me."
"There's a dullahan in Glasgow."
"It's the unfortunate truth," sighs Kearney. "My colleagues across the river have been unable to convince him to leave though they've been trying for /decades."
"I see."
"I expect the Laird of Kelvinside can help narrow your search for the dullahan."
"I'm sure he can and I will ask him at our meeting. Thank you for your time, Dame Kearney."
"You are /most welcome. Please, visit again under more pleasant circumstances."
"Thank you." Minerva tucks away the quill and parchment transcript, pushes to her feet. "May you have good health and pleasant nights until we meet again."
"The same to you, Minerva," purrs Kearney. "Lovely, see her safely back."
"Yes, ma'am."
Minerva strides, the young vampire at her side, to the car.
He gets the door for her, then tucks himself into his side of the seat.
She watches the city through the window glass on the return trip to Elmbank Street.
The vampire exits first, opens her door, helps her to the curb, walks with her until they draw even with the shopfront next to Gowdie and Gray's, then stops.
She pauses, raises an eyebrow.
"I'm not welcome on their pavement," he explains. "This's as close as I can get without causing a scene."
"I see."
He leans against the plate glass, crosses one ankle over the other. "Mind if I—?" Holds out a packet of cigarettes he pulls from a pocket.
"Go ahead."
"Thanks." He lights a cigarette, puts it to his lips, inhales deeply, cocks his head at the thing, exhales. "I don't /need these, but I miss 'em after a while."
Minerva snorts.
He smiles.
"May I ask you a question?"
"Fire away."
"How old are you really?"
"Nineteen."
Minerva's jaw drops.
"Born June nineteen-thirty-five."
"You're only—and you're already—?"
The last bit squeaks.
"Yea, but I'd be dead if it weren't for Dame Kearney."
She goggles.
"It was this life or the graveyard, so I took this."
"But sh-she completely controls you!"
"'s better'n /dead. I had to choose, so I did."
Minerva gapes at him.
"Listen, yer about my age, yea? What'd you give up, right now, to keep on living? Or even t'keep your new job?"
Her heart stutters, threatens to escape her chest.
She takes a step back, hand to her mouth.
"There's a bloke broken-hearted. That's what I thought."
Minerva controls herself, rallies. "/You're going to be a mur—"
"I already am."
"How can you even /think about living as a-a—you know?!"
"Simple: I don't wanna die yet."
"It's /evil."
"Listen." He tosses aside the cigarette, steps toe-to-toe with her, hisses, "This isn't about money or power or prestige. This's /survival." He leans even closer, nose nearly touching hers, eyes blazing. "Maybe if I had magic or some of those fancy brews your lot's hiding, I could've done different. For 'Muggle' me, this was my only chance to save myself."
"You plan to kill others to keep 'saving' yourself."
"If I have to."
"Why we consider your kind 'beings' is beyond me," she spits.
He smiles. "It's politics. /We have some of the money and power and prestige /you want. Until /you figure out a way to kill /us all, /you're stuck playing nice."
Minerva growls, turns on her heel, marches away, back straight.
""Say 'hello' to London for me~!"" calls the vampire.
She slams Gowdie and Gray's door.
Head swivel.
"My apologies. The wind seems to have pulled it out of my hands."
"It's alright, lass," reassures the witch behind the counter. "That happens sometimes. May I pour you a cuppa?"
Minerva sighs in at an empty table. "That would be lovely."
"Coming right up~!"
.
== Vampire Hunt ==
AKA, Minerva McGonagall's first assignment for the Depart of Magical Law Enforcement, from the vampire's POV
Date: 25 September 1954; assorted locales around the city of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
He leans against the car, lit up by the light from the shop windows and streetlamps, fingers twitching for the fag he's not allowed at the moment.
Right on time, a whiff of magic-in-the-blood has him searching the passers-by.
A stylishly-hatted black-haired witch in green marches away from Gowdie and Gray's, head high and looking clearly for a Dame.
He straightens.
She marks him and the shamrock on his lapel in her peripheral, gives him the once-over.
For a second, he sees what she sees: a little less than five-and-a-half-feet of blue-eyed Scotsman with dishwater blond hair underneath his hat, a touch pale, but overall too plain to notice and not enough of anything to be a threat.
Exactly what he's supposed to be.
She strides over.
Sweet Christ, she's a teenager.
They sent a fucking teenager to deal with— 
"Miss," he greets, touching the brim of his hat.
"I'm from the Department of Law Enforcement," she snips, something Highland—Caithness, maybe—under the London sheen. "You are?"
"My name doesn't matter, only that Dame Kearney sent me to meet you."
"/'Lady' Kearney."
"She tells me to call her 'dame', I call her 'dame'." He shrugs. "You know how it is."
"Surely you have a name," she insists, looking down from atop her heeled boots at him. "I need to call you /something."
"No, you don't."
She frowns, lips drawing into a thin, tight line. "Everyone deserves a name."
"Dame Kearney'll tell you what to call me." He shrugs again.
She shifts—ah, /now she realizes exactly what he is—tugs her jacket down, huffs, "We shouldn't keep the Lady waiting. Do we have far to go?"
"Only a few minutes by car." He opens the door, bows her in.
She narrows her eyes.
He sighs, says low, "Dame Kearney doesn't want a war and that's what hurting you'd bring, aye? You're safe as houses with me."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because—" He takes a breath. "Because I'm what I am for survival and pissin' off your bosses's and The Dame's a sure way to make it difficult."
She studies him.
He waits, hand still on the door handle.
"Thank you for your honesty." She slides into the backseat.
He smiles, closes the door, goes around, opens up, climbs in, settles back, nods to the driver who's watching in the rear-view.
The car eases into traffic and threads through the city streets and over the river into The Dame's territory.
She keeps an eye on the scenery and him.
"Been to Glasgow before?"
"No, I haven't." 
"Well, she's not much like Edinburgh and /nothing like London. Has her own way of going."
"It seems so." She side-eyes. "You've visited London?"
"Yea, but I can't say as I liked it. Felt too full, you know? Like I'd never be /welcome there."
A hint of a smile. "London /does feel like that at first. She warms up to one rather quickly, though."
He smiles back. "I'll keep that in mind if I'm ever looking to relocate."
The car purrs to a stop in front of the restaurant.
He hops out, opens her door.
She unfolds herself, straightens her clothes and hat.
He offers a hand, helps her onto the kerb, leans in quick. "A bit of advice 'cos I like your hat: play it quiet with The Dame. She's gonna try t'get a rise outta you. Don't let her or she'll use it against you."
Her eyes flash wide, then she arranges a neutral face and nods.
He smiles, steers them to the entrance.
The doorman bows low. "You are welcome to enter, Miss, Master."
"Thank you," she says.
In they go.
She marches straight across the empty dining room to The Dame's table, announces, "Minerva McGonagall, here on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The Dame inclines her head. "Dame Malina Kearney, Laird of Glasgow-South-of-the-Clyde."
"Charmed."
"The same, love. Please, sit."
He pulls out a chair.
Minerva enthrones herself, allows him to scootch her in. She arranges a quill and parchment—/witches—while he takes the chair beside The Dame's.
The Dame watches, wearing her most catlike smile.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me on such short notice, Dame Kearney."
The quill scratches away.
"It's my pleasure, Minerva-dear." The Dame folds her hands. "What would you like to speak to me about?"
"The Ministry of Magic wants to know your involvement in the events leading up to the 'vampire hunt' in the Southern Necropolis on twenty-third September of this year."
"You mean the murder which sent those schoolchildren on a quest for revenge."
"I do. What do you know about it?" 
"All I know is it was my boy here—" The Dame takes possessive hold of his shoulder. "—they were chasing, but he didn't kill that poor lad."
"Does he—" Minerva bobs her head toward him. "—have a name? For the case notes, you understand?"
"He hasn't earned one yet." The Dame twists a bit of his hair between her fingers. "Perhaps in ten years or so he'll be ready for that sort of independence."
He waits, still.
Minerva sniffs. "Fine. How can you be certain he /didn't kill the boy."
"It's quite simple, love. He /can't. By the contract which binds us, until I name him he can't hunt without my permission. It also says I will never ask my scions—like him—to kill or Turn children." The Dame smirks. "It's impossible—/completely against his nature—for him to break that contract."
"And you? Is it against /your nature?"
The Dame laughs. "It's against my good sense. If /I violate the terms, he's free to do whatever he will. We /can't have that now."
Minerva raises an eyebrow.
"He still needs my protection, dear. Why, the very first time I let him hunt on his own he picked a fight with a mob and landed in hospital." The Dame clicks her tongue, takes hold of his chin, tilts his head back. "They did a marvelous job repairing him, don't you think?"
"Yes, you can barely see the scars. A broken jaw, was it?"
The Dame releases him, humming. "Most of his teeth, as well. It cost me a pretty penny to have him put back together."
"He must be someone special to you."
"Oh, no! He's merely something I found in the gutter and brought home to polish—" The Dame settles her hand on his shoulder again. "—but I always take good care of my toys."
"Of course," drawls Minerva. 
The Dame smiles.
"Since you and your scions are not responsible for the murder, who is?"
"I have /no idea." The Dame spreads her hands.
He bites his tongue.
Minerva locks in on him. "Do /you know?"
The Dame nudges his foot under the table.
Permission to tell the truth.
"I have a /suspicion," he says, slow.
"Why didn't you tell me?" demands The Dame.
"I didn't say 'cos it's just a guess and it's outside your holdings."
The Dame huffs. "Well, tell Minerva. Hurry up!"
"Yes, ma'am." He takes a breath, meets Minerva's eyes. "I'm pretty sure the dullahan lives along Dumbarton Road did it. He'll kill anyone for the right price and I heard 'im laughing when those little fu—menaces spotted me."
"There's a dullahan in Glasgow."
"It's the unfortunate truth," sighs The Dame. "My colleagues across the river have been unable to convince him to leave though they've been trying for /decades."
"I see."
"I suspect the Laird of Kelvinside can help you narrow your search."
"I'm sure he can and I will ask him at our meeting. Thank you for your time, Dame Kearney."
"You are /most welcome, Minerva. Please, visit again under more pleasant circumstances."
"Thank you." Minerva tucks away the quill and parchment, pushes to her feet. "May you have good health and pleasant days until we meet again."
"The same to you, love," purrs The Dame. "See her safely back."
"Yes, ma'am."
He stands, falls into step with Minerva out to the car, gets the door for her, claims his side of the backseat.
She watches the scenery the short trip back to Elmbank Street.
He lets her out, walks with her until they're even with the locksmith's next to Gowdie and Gray's, stops.
She stops, eyebrow up.
"I'm not welcome on their pavement," he explains. "This's far as I can go without causing a scene."
"I see." Minerva stands there, studying him.
He leans against the window. "Mind if I—?" Waggles the pack of smokes he pulls from a pocket.
"Go ahead."
"Thanks." He lights a fag, fills his lungs, cocks his head at the thing, exhales. "I don't /need these, but I miss 'em after a while."
Minerva snorts.
Another drag and blow.
"May I ask you a question?"
"Fire away."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
Minerva's jaw drops. "Ninet—and you're already—?" The last bit squeaks.
"I'd be dead if it weren't for Dame Kearney." 
She stares, brain obviously spinning.
"Yea, /dead. It was this or the graveyard, so I took this."
"But sh-she completely controls you!"
"'s better'n /dead. I had to choose, so I did."
She splutters at him.
"Listen, yer about my age, yea? What would /you give up, right now, to keep on living? Or even t'keep your new job?"
Minerva actually takes a step back, hand to her mouth.
"That's what I thought."
"But you're going to be a mu—"
"I already am."
"How can you even /think about living this way?!"
"I don't wanna die yet."
"This's /evil!"
"Listen." He tosses aside the fag, pulls himself up to full height. "This isn't about money or power or prestige. This's /survival." Leans closer. "Maybe if I had magic or some of those fancy potions your lot's hiding, I could've done different. For 'Muggle' me, this was my only chance to save myself."
"And you plan to kill others to keep yourself alive."
"If I have to."
"Why we consider you 'beings' is beyond me," she hisses.
He smiles. "It's politics. /We have some of money and power and prestige /you want. Until /you figure out a way to kill /us all, /you're stuck playing nice."
Minerva growls, turns on her heel, marches away, spine straight as a ramrod.
"Say 'hello' to London for me~!" he calls.
Gowdie and Gray's door /slams.
He laughs, slouches back against the glass, mumbles, "Welcome to Glasgow and her vampires, Minerva."
Then he fishes out another fag and lights it for the long walk back to The Dame's.
== Safe-keeping ==
AKA, Fairbairn (9) meets Don (31 & using a different name) the first time.
Date: 29 September 1967; Townhead, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
Diarmad flies down the dim pavement alongside the hospital.
""Save yer strength, Beaky!"" hollers Jeremy, pounding after him.
""Yea, we want ye to put up a fight!"" adds Davy from a half-step behind Jeremy.
"You need t'catch me first!" Diarmad dives down a narrow alleyway between brick buildings, flails to a stop /just before crashing into an adult leaning against the wall, fag in hand.
The bloke—wearing rumpled clothes and with deep, dark rings around his eyes—raises an eyebrow.
Diarmad gets his balance sorted, offers up his best harmless smile. "I, um, sorry. I was just taking a shortcut—"
""Oi! Beaky!""
Diarmad cringes.
The resting bloke snorts.
Diarmad squeezes past, gets the bloke between himself and Jeremy and Davy.
"'scuse us, sir," pants Davy, "we're supposed to take that little bleeder back t'his ma. He's late for tea, ye'see."
"Nah. I don't think ye are." The stranger takes lungful of smoke. "Run on home now."
"Who're /you t'give /us orders?" scoffs Jeremy.
"An adult—and one who doesn't much like bullies." He exhales a cloud. "Scoot."
Jeremy pulls himself up to his full height, sniffs, "Are you gonna make us? You're barely bigger'n me!"
The stranger pushes off the wall, grabs Jeremy by the collar, hoists him clear off the ground /one-handed.
Jeremy claws at the bloke's arm, eyes huge with absolute /terror and feet kicking something wild.
Davy spins on his toes, sprints to the street, vanishes around the corner.
The stranger sets Jeremy on the ground, pats his head.
Jeremy squeaks, whirls, and /runs.
The bloke turns back around, smirking. "Yer gonna catch flies."
Diarmad shuts his mouth with a snap.
"Better." The man leans against the wall again, knocks ash from his cigarette.
"Thank you—what's your name?"
"Jamie."
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Jamie!"
"'welcome." 
"I'm lucky you were here." Diarmad blinks rapidly around the bare alley. "Why /are you here?"
Jamie takes a long drag on his cigarette. "My wife an' daughter're in there—" He bobs his head toward the hospital building. "—and the nurses don't 'preciate my smoking.
"They're sick?"
"Nah, just getting their strength up." A small smile. "My daughter's new-born."
Diarmad scuffs his toe against the tarmac. "They'll get to come home soon?"
"'nother few days."
"You're happy?"
"Very."
Diarmad takes a deep breath. "Then why d'ye look so /tired?"
Jamie takes another lungful of smoke, side-eyes, decides. "'cos I'm worried."
"'bout what?"
"My boss ain't the least happy for us."
"What kinda person doesn't like /babies?"
Jamie ashes, laughs weakly. "Her kind. She dislikes babies enough, I'm 'fraid she might hurt my girl."
Diarmad puffs out his chest. "/I'll keep your daughter safe. To thank you proper."
Laughter flashes across Jamie's face, but he smooths it away and says, serious, "I appreciate the offer, but I think I can handle it just fine on my own." 
Diarmad nods.
Jamie crushes the last of his cigarette under his heel, tousles Diarmad's hair, and disappears through a back door to the hospital.
Diarmad waits for the /snick of the latch, then takes a deep breath and marches for home. As he goes, he draws his hand along someone's roses, smiles to himself as the leaves turn green for a moment before fading back to autumn brown.
.
== Present Company ==
Date: 8 September 1995; Gorbals, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
He strolls into the playground, scanning the equipment and empty spaces for his target.
Giggles from a little hollow off to his right.
He sniffs the air—sweat, arousal, adrenaline, cider—rolls his eyes, grumbles, "Teenagers."
Wades deeper into the park, eyes and nose peeled.
A metal-on-metal squeak from the left.
The smell of countryside, big dog, and bloody-fuckin'-magic.
He sighs, tucks his nose into his scarf, slouches in that direction.
A scrawny someone with curly, mostly-dark hair sits on one of the swings, head tilted back to admire the orange light reflecting off the clouds, maybe?
He shrugs internally, walks up, parks his arse on the next swing.
"Lovely night, int it?" says Diarmad.
"If you're planning on catching your death." He snorts. "I /can't be that lucky."
"It's not going to be the Scottish weather which kills me, I think."
He digs out his packet of fags from his jacket, shakes one free, pats his pocket.
The /rest of his pockets.
"Got a light?" he asks.
"Those things'll kill you."
"/You can't be that lucky."
Diarmad snorts, snaps his fingers.
The end of the fag sparks, ignites.
"Thanks." He fills his lungs, then breathes out pure slow. "Why'm I here?"
"That's rather philosophical of—"
"Save it. Why'd you want to see me?"
Diarmad pushes off, sets his swing swinging. "I've coaxed a research budget from Thomas and I'm thinking of using it on treatments for werewolves."
Another drag, then, "You think war's coming and he'll be using pups as weapons again."
"I do," sighs Diarmad. "I suspect you do, as well."
"Yea, it's in the air, alright."
Diarmad grunts, pushes his swing higher.
"I can't help you fight."
"I know."
"I won't help Them."
"I know."
"You won't be pulling Cherish into this."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"And none of you'll be /fighting here, aye?"
"I'm not /nearly mad enough to anger the mighty Laird of Glasgow."
"Yea, he's a right cunt when you step on his toes." He smiles. "Messes up the polish. Pisses him off."
Diarmad snorts a laugh.
"Wouldn't be so bad if he could afford servants, but the job doesn't pay what it used to." He takes in the last of the smoke, blows it out. "'course, nothing does in this economy."
"Excellent point, Mister Gow—"
"Not anymore. It's time for a change." He drops the end of his fag on the gravel, grinds it underfoot, picks it up, palms it. "I'll answer to 'Donald Douglas' for the next while."
"Well then, Mister Douglas, I'm pleased to meet you. Again."
"Wish I could say the same to you, Mister Fairbairn."
Diarmad pouts. "I'm not your best friend? Not even /a friend?"
"Since when can your kind and mine be friends?"
"Since you trusted me with your daughter's education?"
"I trusted Gowdie and Kinnaird, not /you."
"And yet Cherish told me I was her favourite teacher."
He snorts. "I told her to practice lying on you."
Diarmad digs in his heels, drags himself to a stop. "You taught your daughter to /lie?"
"She's gonna be a politician of sorts someday. Figured it'd be a useful skill t'have."
Diarmad laughs.
He smiles.
"Hopefully she won't be taking office for a very, /very long time. I'd miss my friend the Laird dearly."
He toes the stones. "Well, I suppose a man's gotta take what friends he can."
"Present company, for example."
"Yea, exactly like that."
.
== Death'a Ye ==
Date: 27 February 1998; East Kilbride, South Lanarkshire and Govanhill, City of Glasgow, Scotland, United Kingdom
"You're making too much noise," growls Ailsa.
"A huvnae said a /feckin' word!" 
She gives Beathan a Look.
"'til just now, 'a course."
She laughs. "It's your /shoes. Why can't you wear normal boots? Or trainers?"
"There's somethin' tae be said for tradition." Beathan grins, devil-may-care, shuffles so his tackety boots /tack-tackety against the pavement. "'sides, ye cannae /really stomp a beastie intae submission with trainers, can ye?"
"Says the numpty who wouldn't beat /anything into submission given his choice."
"Ye huvnae hae problems with my personal style 'fore t'night."
"I haven't /mentioned a problem before. Doesn't mean I've been square with things."
"A needtae be afeard yer gawn run off with Hansen?"
"I don't rob cradles," grumbles Ailsa, eyes fastened on her swinging clutch of crystals and medals. "All these bloody ee-em fields messing with my readings. Left." Glowers. "I think."
"Left itis."
"Who turns untreated werewolves loose in fuckin' /East /Kilbride?"
"The bastarts we're dealing with, hen."
Ailsa huffs, turns them right and into a lane of on-the-tired-side houses. "We're /sure there're five of 'em?"
"'s hoot all the spotters said an' we've four of 'em dealt with already, so, if my maths're right, ane's still out here. Somewhere."
Ailsa's pendants twirl a circle of indecisive.
She frowns something fierce, grumps, "Saint Christopher Dog-head, there's /got to be a better way—"
Beathan makes a megaphone from his cupped hands. "Here, Wolfie~! Here, lassie~! Come tae yer daw~!"
Ailsa stops, hands on hips, lips thin. "Weren't the orders to keep things quiet?"
"Rat-arsed roaster yellin' fer his dog /is quiet fer—"
Air splits and they're at dead full sprints before the first scream makes maximum volume, 'round another corner, down—
Beathan grabs for the wolf's throat from half a block away, roars, "/Linga!"—
A /whoosh!—
The abhorred vacuum collapses as air fills in the space.
He keeps running, boots clattering against pavement until—
Three down: man in the gutter, woman on someone's garden path—
"/Ailsa! Th' feck're—"
She skids up, goes to her knees, bounces the toppled pram into the street, cradles the bleeding bairn, mumbling charms sweet enough to coax the dead back and digging for her sealing salve.
He's got nothing to add to that, so he checks the man—
Beyond help.
—the woman.
Beyond—
"Aw shite, Annie," he breathes, crouches. "'s been /yonks, but A didnae wantae meet ye again like this." Sighs, Let's pretty ye up a tad. 's'not fair tae leave a bonnie burd in sucha state." Waves a hand, cocks his head. Another breath and a flick and he approves his handiwork, pushes to his feet, slouches to the man. Gives him the same sort of makeover, then back to Ailsa and the poor bairn's side.
She gathers the pale—
Wean whines.
Beathan's heart skips, happy as a lark.
—bairn close, eases upright. "I've done what I can. Rest is down to how much Fight he has."
"Savin' the innocent from death's very door." Pecks her temple. "That's my Ailsa."
"What about them?"
"I cannae fix 'beheaded' or 'emptied of blood'."
"Surprised t'hear you admit it."
Beathan rolls it off his shoulders. "Right, then. Sanctuary. We should make fer th' Reids."
"Why them?" Ailsa pushes damp red hair off the wean's forehead.
He whimpers and Beathan has to un-set his jaw.
"Why Reids and not try to find his family?"
"Who better t'guard a wee barra than giants?"
"They're not giants."
"Yenno the Ministry's records're fer shite on interracial families, aye?"
"Especially after you and Rocket Rory had a go at 'em."
He preens.
"But, why the Reids?"
Beathan takes a deep breath. "'cos I trust Tor with my life an' they're a short hop away." Wrinkles his nose. "Bairn solid enough t' Apparate, ye figure?"
"Govanhill should be no thing."
"Magic." Beathan stuffs himself in the nearest phone box, a convenient sixteen steps down the pavement (plus two more to miss the blood), picks up the banana-bit, presses his palm to the numbers.
Three rings and—
""Reid.""
"'ey, Fella-dear! Would'ye put yer da on?"
""Sure. /DAA!""
Jerks the handset away—
""/PHONE!""
—switches ears. "Thanks, Fella."
""'bye!""
""Tor, here.""
A phone drops into its cradle.
"'s McEwan. I need a /toaty favour from ye. Involves mindin' a cabbage."
Ailsa snorts from outside the door.
""Always up for baby-sitting. Bring 'em over.""
"We'll be at yer door in a wink. Thanks! Tah!" He hangs up.
Change clatters into the little return slot.
"You're the stingiest Scotsman I know and that's saying a whole /lotta somethings."
Beathan pockets the coins—"Mony a mickle maks a muckle!"—steps out of his little glass box, links his arm with hers. "An' ane-two-three~!"
The world sucks-spins-/spits them out on the steps of a terraced house.
Wean whimpers again.
Ailsa coos.
Beathan knocks.
Wean whimpers, quieter.
Tor Reid fills the doorframe, bows them inside.
Dona's looming in the close, trying to decide how miffed to be, then she spots the bairn and goes dead pure motherly.
Ailsa slides him into her arms.
Dona murmurs, "We'll be upstairs."
Tor watches her go, turns back to them, eyebrow up. "You two are the /funniest-looking storks."
"Wee yin needs refuge fer the night, 'til we can work out where he rightly belongs."
"You want to sit and—"
"We need to get back out." Ailsa shrugs. "Duty calls."
Tor grunts with fellow-feeling.
"So. Right. He dinnae lose too much blood—"
"/Blood?"
"Took a maulin' and needs tae get some strength back in a safe space."
Tor blinks twice, well slow, then some of his giant blood catches alight, and he rumbles, "What did this so I can grab Cal an' Mal and go take care of it?"
Ailsa bares her teeth. "We already 'took care'."
Tor looks away—maybe not so giant-y after all—tacks on a quiet, "What was it?"
"A werewolf."
Tor blinks, well fast now. "So he's—" His eyes flick toward the upper story and he swallows hard.
"If he makes it through th' first Change, aye." Beathan contemplates Tor's impressively tasteful foyer rug. "Never seen sucha wee yin facin' it, so." Shrugs.
Tor inhales sharp-ish, goes giant-ly again. "It likely to come back? Finish ...?"
"Nae. She's gawn to Shetland fer the night and we're gawn make dead sure she nae set a paw in town again."
Tor grunts approval.
"How's that security charm we set been holding?"
"We ...." He takes half the air in the close into his lungs. "Only house on this stretch hasn't been broken into this year."
"Quality. I'll go reset it, just to be certain. 'scuse me." Ailsa sidles out the door.
Beathan throws the bolt over his shoulder. "Tor, ye needtae know ... the burd we found him with? T'were Annie."
Tor goes unicorn white. "My old Annie?"
"Aye." Beathan's heart threatens a Xenomorph-ish escape and he squeaks, "He's nae yer—"
"He's hers. Kris." Tor shudders. "At least, he's the right age to be Kris."
"Aw, shite." Beathan rubs the back of his head. "Annie's man dark-haired, 'bout—" Gestures at clavicle level. "—long an' so—" A few inches above his head. "—tall?"
"Y-yea. If he's wearing all black, he's Andrew."
"He were."
A lot of things—and not a single one pleasant—flicker across Tor's face.
Beathan fiddles for nothing in the pockets of his leathers, anything to stop looking.
"What now? For him?"
"There other kin ye know of?"
"Not that'll take in a werewolf. Or anything magical." Another deep breath. "So, what happens?"
Beathan risks a butcher's, then straightens the rest of the way. "A tell my people; they find a family can take him."
Tor locks their eyes—the giant flashes again—rumbles, "/We'll take him."
"He's gawn need—"
"We'll learn. The School knows what to do, aye?"
"Aye." Beathan smiles, hope creeping back for the first time since the screaming. "All connect the dots. They'll send a healer t'check him oot, prove he's truly Kris, then do the paper magic."
Tor makes a face, bursts out laughing to shake the house down.
"My lack'a skill—"
Tor waves him to quiet.
Beathan quietens.
"You were worried about the wean not making it, aye?"
"Aye?"
"Just remembered this's /Annie's son we're talkin' about. He'll probably spit silver bullets right out."
"Ye ... yer very right aboot that," chuckles Beathan. "That woman ...."
They sigh—
Pounding on the door.
—jump together.
Beathan unlocks the door, braces for the inevitable.
Ailsa stomps in. "The bloody /fuck was that about?!"
"Reflex?"
Tor snorts a laugh.
Ailsa rolls her eyes, turns to Tor. "We should probably leave you to a good night's. Thanks for watching the boy for us."
"You're welcome. Keep us in the loop, aye?"
"'a'course." Beathan tips an invisible traffic cone, opens the door, follows Ailsa out into the Glasgow streetlight glow.
They make it to the first crossing.
"Teleportin that bitch to Shetland isn't /near bad enough for what she did," growls Aisla.
"Figure the ten-foot drop intae the thorniest patch A could remember'll make it /li'l bad."
"You should've killed her, Beathan."
"A dinnae kill animals, hen."
"She's a rabid dog if she's an animal."
"She's a dog gone /feral: scran an' kindness an' she may come back 'round to bein' a pet."
Ailsa sighs, fond, digs an elbow into his ribs. "Your mercy's gonna be the death'a ye."
"Oh, aye, but A wouldnae have it any other way." 
.
== The Laird of Glasgow ==
Date: 30 April 1998; Pollok, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
They're still licking their wounds when Don catches up to them in the shadow of Crookston's castle, pretty much where Rocket Rory guessed they'd be.
Don clears his throat.
Four heads—all of 'em old enough to know better—swivel to face him, matching shocked expressions on display.
"You lot are hip-deep in shit."
"How'd you get here?!" demands the mousiest one.
"Took the train, then pegged it from the station." Don fishes his fags from his pocket, lights one, takes a deep drag. Exhales.
The bloke flaunting the fancy forearm tattoo /finally gets brave, steps forward, snarls, "Who the fuck're you?"
"Wrong question."
There's enough pause to fill his lungs with smoke.
"Say /what?"
Don exhales the cloud. "I said that's the wrong question t'ask."
Tattoo steps closer. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
"Yea, some nobodies working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-If-Ye-Don't-Feel-Like-Dealing-With-His-Pasty-Arse."
"I'll show—/Fulgur Virga!"
Don manages a sigh before the lightning hits.
Tattoo blinks at him, still standing and unsinged.
"You 'bout done?"
"But—you're supposed to be /dead!"
"'cept I'm /not and you have to deal with me." Don brushes staticky sparkles from the folds of his shirt.
"Who /are you?"
"Laird of the City of Glasgow and all things what go 'bump' in its night."
"You're not Dame Kearney," sneers someone looks like the crustiest of old-age-pensioners.
"Ol' Malina's been dead the better part of thirty years—" Don knocks ash from the cigarette. "—since I killed her."
A whiff of fear wafts over and Don grins.
"Vampire," breathes the one cowering hardest.
"/Laird of the City of Glasgow, which makes me heir to all bargains struck with former lairds." He crosses his arms loosely over his chest. "Specifically the one your boss made: my kind'd keep Glasgow neutral ground in exchange for no one with that mark—" He bobs toward Tattoo. "—spilling blood with magic inside city bounds."
Everybody goes shifty-eyed.
"There's been some misunderstanding, sir," wheedles Crusty. "We're only resting in the city after an ambush. There's been no fight in Glasgow."
"Officially, Carmunnock /is part of Glasgow, so, yea, there was." Don takes another drag. "You killed two wizards. In /my city."
"They killed four—"
"/And they're already dead, ye eejits!"
Mousy and Cringy step back.
"Now, normally, I'd let you off with the beating of yer lives, but one of those spell-throwers you snuffed's my blood, so none'a ye are leaving this spot." Don drops the spent fag, grinds it out.
"I'd like to see you stop us!" hollers Tattoo.
Aside from a farty noise, nothing happens.
"Yeaaa, 'bout that. This square mile's been a No-Poofin' and No-Flyin' Zone since I strolled up. Ye wanna escape, you need to outrun me."
"How—you're not a wizard?"
"Right, but I've taken trophies from a few over the years. Like the one keeping you from Apparating."
The quartet exchange looks.
"I'd start running, I was you," prompts Don.
Four sets of eyes go terrified and the scent of adrenaline washes over Don like a wave.
"Go on now." He shoos them, grinning his broadest. "/Run."
They /finally take to their heels.
Don snorts, gives them a sporting five-second head-start.
.
== This Mess ==
Date: 30 April 1998; Pollok, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK
Don lies on the park grass looking up at the stars, city lights in the corner of one eye and Crookston's castle in the other.
His neck itches like crazy.
"'a /course one 'a those fucks  had to be AB-negative," He pats his pockets instead of scratching. "Outta fags, too. Just my bloody luck." Sighs. "Best get this over with."
He fishes the compass from his shirt pocket, flips it open, plucks the magnet from inside the cover, snaps it closed.
A breath of fresh city air as the spell breaks.
Magnet goes in one pocket, compass in the other.
He tucks his hands under his head, hollers at the clear sky, "Oi! Lord Voldemort! Need a moment of your time!"
A /pop.
Don sits up, crosses his legs.
A rather pissed, be-robed wizard lackey steps out of the poof, glaring. "Who're you to—"
"Vampire Laird of Glasgow. Need you to clean up this mess." He gestures to the four bloodless bodies strewn about the lawn. "They broke the 'neutral ground' agreement, so I punished 'em as I saw fit."
Lackey blinks hard and fast, mouth working wordlessly.
"If ye consult yer little book of rules, this's covered by the deal the good Lord made with Dame Kearney, my sire and the last Laird."
Lackey gets his mouth closed, croaks, "A moment, please."
"Take your time, but we're out in the open, aye? Anyone can see us."
Lackey startles, fumbles a black book out of his sleeve, flips pages, then settles and skims.
Don pushes to his feet, dusts of the seat of his trousers.
"It says ... you are within your rights, but—" Lackey grins nastily. "—one of the wizards who attacked my colleagues escaped."
"Yea, Rocket Rory Fegan. I know."
"Why didn't you kill /him?"
"I've known Rocket for /yonks and his aim's shite. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barge. You /sure he killed someone? I figure the bird took 'em all."
"A /witch? Kill /four /wizards?"
"The best soldiers I've ever met've been women, so." He shrugs.
"We /demand you treat Fegan the same as you did ours!"
"Listen, I'll tell ye what: /if you can prove to me Fegan killed somebody tonight in Glasgow, I'll end him. That's fair, yea?"
"That's—how're we supposed to do that?! You've killed all the witnesses!"
"Yeaaa ... bit of a wrinkle, that."
Lackey makes a frustrated sound and curls of steam go up from his ears. 
Don smiles as sweet as he can.
"Fine. Fegan will get his soon enough." Lackey points his wand to each corpse in turn, mutters something Latin.
The bodies disappear with sighs.
Don inclines his head. "Thank ye most kindly, good sir."
"You watch yourself, vampire. Once the Lord takes Hogwarts, we'll be coming for your kind."
"Coming for me and mine means the neutrality's off and we'll be coming for /you."
Lackey sniffs.
"Think about that a moment. Every vampire what owes me a favour, hunting you down like I did those idiots. I took as many of you on my own as three wizards did together." Don smirks. "Best stock up on crosses, stakes, and garlic."
Lackey Poofs off before his fear gets /too obvious.
Don sighs, stretches his arms over his head, then tucks his hands in his pockets, puts his shoulders back, strolls—
/pop!
"Aw ... fer—" Don spins around. "—fer fu—Pete's sake point that thing somewhere else!"
Isobel huffs, "You're not him," and lowers her small-caliber semi-automatic handgun with a sigh.
"You're /still trying to /shoot the Dark Lord?"
She tut-tuts as she tucks the gun into her purse. "Of /course I am. I only need to catch up with that insult to Nagas /and wizards." Braces her hands on her hips. "One clear shot. That's all I need."
Don gives a low whistle. "The balls on you, woman ...."
"Don't need 'em." Isobel smiles full of mischief. "I have my range certificate and a spare clip."
"Remind me not to get on your bad side."
"I don't /have a bad side, young man." 
"Of course. My mistake and my sincerest apologies." He bows deeply.
Isobel snorts, then studies him, frowning.
"I'm not going on the naughty list, am I?"
"You've not been eating right."
"I just took care of that. Shouldn't need another feed for /months."
"You got the bastarts killed Ailsa and Beathan, then?"
"Yea. Tell Rocket he's in the clear for me, would'ye?"
"Shall do. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"
"Yea." Don scuffs a boot on the grass. "Win this thing. Don't much fancy immortality in a world run by that lot."
"Neither do I." Isobel smiles like the (great-whatever) grandmother she is. "Take care of yourself, lovely." She draws her arm across her chest—
/pop!
Don shakes his head at the empty spot, chuckles, "Crazy old bat."
He rocks around on his heels, strolls for the train station—and the little shop next to it that sells his brand.
.
== Safe Harbour ==
Date: 13 April 2012
Setting: Stromness, Orkney, SCO, UK
Inspired by the 'searching for sea life' multipurpose prompt
Kieran waits on the school steps, head tilted back to enjoy the warm sun on his face.
The other students flow around him like water around a rock, murmuring, then—
Kieran blinks at] the empty schoolyard, sighs, "We're gonna be in so much /trouble."
Running footsteps and Duncan skids up, wheezing, "Sorry! Mister Rhys wanted to talk—"
"Explain it to Father."
Duncan winces, whimpers, "I don't wanna be a turtle again."
"Then we need to move. C'mon." Kieran grabs Duncan's hand, tows him across the yard to the gate.
Mum, pretty in her blue coat with all the ribbons, smiles when they reach the pavement.
Kieran ducks his head. "I'm sorry we're late. It's my—"
"Shhh. It's nothing." She tucks Duncan close and runs her fingers] through Kieran's hair. "Did you have good days at school?"
"Mhmm."
"Yes!" chirps Duncan. "Mister Rhys wants to give me harder stories so I'm not so /bored."
"That's wonderful!" Mum squeezes. "What do you say to enjoying the sunshine at the beach in celebration?"
"Really?" breathes Duncan.
"Mhmm. Missus Rahman was saying it was too pretty to stay inside and I think she's right. What about you?" >what do you think about something like; LOVE. IT.< 
"But ...." Kieran shifts his feet. "Won't Father be upset we're not coming straight home?"
"He's working late tonight, so he won't know." Mum tucks Kieran under her other arm. "It'll be our secret." She leans in close, smiles. "We can play the seal game, too."
"Yay!" Duncan bounces on his toes. "I'm gonna find 'em today and I want krumkake!"
"Then that's what you'll have if you win!" Mum takes their hands in hers. "Let's go!"
They skip along the road, past the pier, to the rocky place Mum loves best of all.
Duncan takes off across the stones at a run.
"Mind your footing!" calls Mum.
Duncan keeps running.
Kieran picks his way to the water's edge, keeping sharp watch for slippery algae. He glances over his shoulder.
Mum, like always, stays well back from the water, looking over the waves without really /looking.
"Mum!" Duncan hops and points. "I win!"
Four big seals bark and bellow as they wiggle out of the surf.
Mum gasps.
Kieran turns. "What's wrong?"
"N-nothing." She shakes herself. "Nothing's wrong. Let's see if we can get next to them, yea?"
Duncan rushes back, panting. "I get krumkake, right, Mum? With extra whipped cream?" 
"Of course, Duncan." Mum sounds distracted and her eyes stay focused on the newcomers.
The seals worm directly up, tumbling over each other in excitement, yelping the whole while.
Mum stops walking less than a meter away.
The seals go quiet, all of them staring at Mum with their black eyes.
"Boys?" she says quietly. "Run home and bring the spare quilts, please. I'll wait right here."
"Will you be okay?" asks Kieran, eyeing the creatures with suspicion.
"I'll be fine. You go on."
"C'mon, Duncan."
"But—"
Kieran grabs his hand, tugs Duncan back up the slope to the road.
They're quiet all the way to the house and while Kieran digs the pile of quilts out of the linen cupboard. He hands one to Duncan, keeps the other three, and heads for the door.
"Hey, Kieran?"
"Yea?"
"What's going on?"
"I have no idea."
"Those seals were acting really weird."
"Yea ...." Kieran makes it to the front step, digs the key from his pocket.
Duncan hugs the blanket tighter. "Do you think they're selkies?"
Kieran fumbles with the key. "Why do you ask?"
"Be-because we were reading legends in class this week and one said if a sad lady cries into the sea a selkie will come and be her husband and make her happy."
Kieran manages the lock.
"Mum cries a lot."
"She's already married to Father—" Kieran starts them down the lane at a fast walk. "—and selkies don't exist."
"Wizards don't exist either," Duncan grumbles, jogging to catch up.
"They /don't /exist."
Duncan keeps quiet the rest of the way.
Mum, cheeks wet, stands where they'd left her, but instead of four seals, there're four men wearing strips of velvety fabric around their middles.
Kieran keeps his eyes down, passes the blankets to Mum, who hands them to the men.
He risks a peek.
All four wear the blankets like cloaks.
"These are your sons?" says the one with grey hairs in his beard.
Mum swipes at her cheeks, hands shaking. "Kieran and Duncan."
"They are strong, beautiful children. Mother and Father would be so proud." 
"Mum, you know these guys?" blurts Kieran.
She takes a deep, shaky breath. "Boys, these are your uncles—" She ticks them off from oldest to youngest. "—Ávvu, Oaván, Dárbmu, and Valljáš. They've come a long way to meet you."
"We have uncles?"
Ávvu forces a frown around into a smile. "You have grandparents, aunts, and cousins, as well."
"Wow," breathes Duncan. "Father said we were all alone in the world."
Ávvu's eyelid twitches and he says, "Sister, Oaván will accompany you to the house. We three have business in the village."
Mum bows her head, whispers, "You know the way?"
"We do. Find what you need. Quickly."
"Mum, what's going on?"
"I'll explain later. We need to go."
Something cold settles in Kieran's stomach, but he forces his feet to keep up with Mum and Oaván's pace.
At the house, Mum says, "You boys put together bags for an overnight stay."
"Where're we—"
"Missus Rahman's. Now go." She gives Kieran a little push then hustles off to her and Father's bedroom.
Kieran shivers, plods over to Duncan, who's already stuffing things from his dresser into a rucksack.
Duncan keeps stuffing.
Kieran does likewise until he has a full change of kit, then shuffles to the washroom for his toothbrush. He tries /not to listen to the voices from Mum's room on the way out, but—
"—never been able to and I've /tried," whines Mum.
"What're you doing?" he asks from the doorway.
Mum jumps away.
Oaván, wearing Father's clothes, yanks at the padlock on Father's cedar-wood chest. "We are trying to open this damned thing." He glares.
"It's magic. You'll never force it."
Oaván growls something in a language Kieran's never heard.
Mum whimpers, buries her face in her hands.
"Father taught me how it works?" offers Kieran.
"Would you show us?" asks Oaván, smiling brightly.
"But Father said never—"
"It's alright this once," assures Mum, eyes very shiny.
Kieran looks away, swallows, kneels next to the chest, his face near the lock with all the little scratches around its keyhole. He fills his lungs, breathes out against the metal.
A tiny /click; the lock twitches.
"There."
"Well done, Kieran." Oaván strokes his hair. "Let us see what he has been hiding in here." He works the lock from the hasp, pushes open the lid, paws about inside.
"Is it there?" rasps Mum.
"Is /what there?"
Oaván makes a victorious noise, jumps to his feet cradling something which shimmers like silver velvet. He settles it like a baby in Mum's arms.
She clutches it to her, blinks rapidly.
"Áidnu," prompts Oaván.
Mum startles, looks to Kieran. "You and Duncan've packed?"
Kieran nods.
She smiles, turns to the door, calls, "Duncan! C'mon! We're going!"
Duncan appears and Mum herds them both into the close.
They climb into their coats and shoes.
Mum fishes a piece of paper from a dress pocket. "Take your brother and this note—" Tucks it in Kieran's pocket. "—to Missus Rahman's. Be good and do what she tells you."
"Y-yes, Mum."
"Whatever happens, I love you both very, very much. /Never forget that."
Kieran's ears ring and his heart tries to beat its way out of his chest. "Mum, what's going on?"
"You'll need to stay with Missus Rahman for a little while, but everything will work out."
"Sister," says Oaván, low. "We need to leave. Now."
Mum rubs more tears off her cheeks with her sleeve. "Be brave, Kieran. Go and don't look back."
Kieran nods, resettles his rucksack over his shoulder.
Mum smiles, wobbily.
He takes Duncan's hand, pulls him out the door and down the lane, not turning around even once.
Kieran stops them in front of the bright red door and knocks.
Missus Rahman swings it open, smiling brightly and eyes twinkling. "Well, this is a lovely surprise! What can I do for you gentlemen this evening?"
"Mum said we should come over and give you this." Kieran offers the note.
"I'll read that once you're inside and comfy, lovies. C'mon, c'mon!" Missus Rahman waves them into the close, helps them stow their coats in a cupboard and line up their shoes, then shoos them into a front room full of puffy furniture. "I'll be right back with some biscuits~!"
Kieran and Duncan slink over to the sofa and perch.
Silence.
Missus Rahman squeaks.
Kieran and Duncan exchange a look; Kieran shrugs.
Missus Rahman speaks, too quiet for them to hear.
Cupboards and plates rattle and bang.
/pop!
Kieran and Duncan exchange another look; Kieran chews his lip.
Voices: Missus Rahman and a man.
Missus Rahman, brown skin now dull and grey-ish, leads in a strange man with bushy eyebrows. She clears her throat and says, "Kieran, Duncan, this is Mister Fairbairn. He's come from the wizard school to talk to you."
Kieran's heart jumps. "You're from Hogwarts?"
Mister Fairbairn crouches to Kieran's level. "No, I'm not. I come from a /different school, one which has more experience helping young people such as yourselves."
Kieran's stomach twists. "Like us?"
"Sons and daughters of selkie-brides."
"Selkie—" Kieran's voice cracks and tears puddle up at the corners of his eyes as fairy tales zip across his memory. "Mum's not coming back."
"I don't know if she is, lad, but it'll be a long time before she /can. We'll leave word for her with Missus Rahman and some other friends about where we've gone."
"Don't take us back to Father!" begs Duncan. "He'll be so /mad at us for making Mum go away!"
"You lads had /nothing—absolutely /nothing—to do with what your mother is doing. This's come about because of something your father did a long time ago, before you were born."
Missus Rahman makes a sad noise and dabs her eyes with a hankie. "I'm so sorry. I wish I'd noticed her coat soon—"
"It's alright, Aditi-dear. You did everything possible. Be happy you found them."
Missus Rahman sniffles.
Kieran swallows. "What's gonna happen to us?"
"First, we're going to eat the /scrumptious tea Missus Rahman's laid out in the kitchen for us. Next, we're going back to your house—don't worry about your father being upset—to gather your things. Then, we'll travel to /my house in the mountains and get you settled in."
"We're going to live with you?"
Mister Fairbairn nods. "Me and my dog, until we find someone you like better. We'll be just down the lane from some of your cousins, too."
"We get to meet them /already?"
"You do! But first: tea!"
"Is there chocolate cake?"
"Of /course there's chocolate cake!"
With a shriek, Duncan shoots off for Miss Rahman's kitchen.
Kieran slides off the cushions and follows, dragging his feet.
Mister Fairbairn catches up, rests a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Kieran stops.
Mister Fairbairn stops, crouches again, says quietly, "Speaking as someone with top marks in predicting the future: this /will work out for the best and you, your brother, and your mother will be happy again very soon."
Kieran takes a deep breath. "I guess ... I guess that's good."
"It's /very good—" Mister Fairbairn straightens. "—as is Missus Rahman's chocolate cake, so we should get to the kitchen before your brother eats it all."
Kieran smiles a little, leads the way.
.
== The White ==
21 April 2012; near Killin, Stirling, SCO, UK
Kieran and Duncan sit on the hillside looking over the loch without really /looking. 
Duncan pulls his knees closer to his chest, huddles deeper into his coat.
"You cold?"
"'m fine."
Somewhere beyond the ridge, thunder rumbles.
The dozen or so ponies in the grassy field at the hill's base toss their heads, switch their tails.
Kieran recrosses his legs.
Nervous whinnies.
"They don't like the storm," says Duncan.
"They don't like being away from home in the storm," corrects Kieran.
"Oh. Right. They're kelpies, not /actual ponies."
"Right."
"They /really look like ponies."
"They're not."
Duncan scratches his nose. "And they can't just go back to the water because ...?"
"The charms on the halters keep 'em from Changing."
"Like Mum couldn't leave without her sealskin."
"Exactly," Kieran sighs.
Thunder: closer, louder.
Kelpies mill about, stamp their hooves.
Duncan shivers.
"Should we head in?"
"Not yet."
A white pony, mane flowing nearly to his knees, wades out of the loch, gives himself a good shake.
The other kelpies gather 'round him, seem to relax a little.
The wind picks up, rattles the trees overhead.
"Kieran?"
"Yea."
"Do you miss Mum?"
"/'course I do. What kinda question is that?"
"I don't—" He takes a deep, shuddery breath. "She /left us."
Lightning flashes.
Nervous whinnies from some of the kelpies.
Thunder rumbles.
"Mister Fairbairn says she didn't have a choice: s-sel—" He takes a deep breath. "Selkies /have to leave when they get their skins back."
"Why?"
"They just /do."
Duncan huffs. "But why didn't she take us, too?"
"It's not like we could leave the way she did."
"But ... she just /left."
Kieran grits his teeth. "Maybe we remind her too much of—"
/pop!
Kelpies startle, scatter from the human spouting profanity now standing in the middle of the grass.
"That sounds like Miss Greenshields."
Kieran grunts agreement.
"Should we help her?"
Kieran shrugs, but pushes to his feet.
Duncan scrambles up, skitters down the hill with Kieran in slower, steadier pursuit.
Kelpies shift from Duncan's path.
"Slow yourselves down! You're scarin' 'em!" hisses Miss Greenshields.
Duncan skids to a walk.
"That's better." Miss Greenshields points to the nearest kelpie—
The halter vanishes; the kelpie spins on its heels, sprints into the water, disappears under the waves.
"Can we help?" calls Kieran.
"Can you throw Placement charms?"
"Uh, no?"
"Then I'd rather you didn't and stay where you are. Keeps ye clear of the teeth, aye?"
"R-right," says Duncan, taking a step back.
Miss Greenshields moves around the field, pointing, Vanishing halters.
Freed kelpies rush into the loch as the wind gathers strength.
The big white latecomer, though, stalks toward Kieran, head high.
"Uh, Miss Greenshields?" Kieran steps between Duncan and the kelpie.
She spares them a glance. "Hold still an' let him check you out. He's the bloke in charge."
"Uh, okay ...." Kieran swallows as the kelpie gets closer. "Does he have a name?"
"He likes us t'call him 'Ailpein'."
Ailpein's muscles ripple like a bodybuilder's as he gets within arm's reach, completely eclipsing the view of Miss Greenshields.
"He's r-really b-big."
""Biggest we've documented since the Truce: fourteen-and-a-half hands.""
Ailpein stops right in front of Kieran.
"That's big, right?"
""For a pony.""
Ailpein sniffs Kieran's hair, ruffling it with each breath.
Kieran swallows.
Lightning; immediate thunder.
Duncan whimpers.
Ailpein snorts, curls his huge head and neck over Kieran's shoulder, presses him against his chest.
"Um, Miss Greenshields? Ailpein's touching /me?"
The briefest pause, then, ""Hug him back."
"Wha?"
""Hug him. Wrap your arms 'round his neck and squeeze gently.""
Kieran takes a deep breath, stretches his arms, laces his fingers in the long white mane, and hugs.
Ailpein grunts, shifts—
Kieran pulls his arms to his sides, slowly.
—moves over to Duncan, sniffs his hair.
Duncan holds very, very still.
Ailpein tucks him under his neck.
Duncan hugs—pats as high up as he can reach.
Ailpein backs away, bobs his head, then turns and trots across the empty field into the water.
Miss Greenshields grins at them. "You two must be something special."
Kieran rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, why?"
"That's his version of a hug. Tough to do it right with no arms, so he does his best."
"But /why'd he hug us?" asks Duncan.
"He's saying you're a friend far as he's concerned. He likes something 'bout how you smell." She tilts her head. "You werewolves?"
"No?"
"Metamorphmagi?"
"No?"
"Animagi?"
"Not yet?"
"I'm stuffed, then." Miss Greenshields shrugs. "He's usually only that friendly right away with folks who can change shape."
"Our mum's a selkie?" volunteers Duncan. "Maybe—"
"That'll be it! He took straight to MacDonald and her pups, too." She frowns. "Only Shifter he doesn't care for's Gorman. None of us have the foggiest why and neither of them're talkin'."
"I thought everyone liked Mister Gorman?"
"Not Ailpein. There's always one, right?"
"I guess—ack!"
"What's wrong?"
"Raindrop hit my nose!"
"We'd better get inside then." Miss Greenshields herds them toward the path to the school.
"Can't you just Apparate us?" whines Duncan.
"The fresh air's good for ye."
"Aww ...."
"The longer you whine, the wetter you'll get."
Duncan huffs of at a quick march.
Kieran smiles, hustles to catch up.
.
== Water Song ==
20 May 2012; near Killin, Stirling, SCO, UK
Kieran jerks awake.
Singing ....
Beside him, Duncan snoozes on.
A woman's voice ....
Across the room, deep breathing from Conall and Isla's tiny lungs.
The springtime song ...?
Kieran's heart stutters; he wiggles off the bed, pads down the hall.
Miss Murron twirls around the front room, singing to giggly baby Finley as she goes. She spots him, smiles, swirls to a stop. "How was your nap?"
"Was fine," replies Kieran, shoulders slumping.
"I've been /trying to convince Finley to join you, but he's being stubborn."
Finley burbles.
"Uh, darn?" Kieran leans against the doorway.
Miss Murron blows a raspberry. "Usually he's /such a sleepy little baby, but—" She shrugs. "—not today~!"
Kieran ducks his head, rubs his neck.
"Ken's gone out for some groceries, but there are apples in the kitchen if you want a snack."
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."
"Well, they're there if you need one later."
"O-okay."
Miss Murron smiles, twirls, hums the chorus of the spring song.
Finley coos.
Kieran shudders, wraps his arms around himself. "Miss Murron, may I ask a question?"
"Of course. Go ahead."
Kieran takes a deep breath, straightens up. "Why're you here?"
Miss Murron wrinkles her forehead. "I'm sorry? What?"
"Why're you here? I mean, you have your sealskin back, so why're you still with him?"
She blinks rapidly.
"You're free?"
She squeaks. 
"I'm sor—should I not—"
"No no! It's not like that with us! I chose /him!" She resettles baby Finley against her shoulder. "Ken's /never hidden my sealskin. He's never even /touched it 'cos we're afraid of what might happen."
"But—" Kieran snaps shut his mouth.
"I love him very, very much."
Kieran hugs himself tightly.
"What's wrong?"
"'s nothing." He forces his arms to his sides. "D-do your parents know where you are?"
Miss Murron nods. "They're visiting next month to add Finley to our Song—our family, officially. Isn't that right, "
"They like Mister Ken?"
She smiles. "They /love him and were so /happy when he /finally married me."
Kieran swallows.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Yea, 'm fine." He shakes himself. "May I go outside?"
Miss Murron studies him, smiles reassurance. "Of course. Wear your jacket and stay on this side of the fences, though."
"I will." Kieran hunches his shoulders, darts to the close, jams his feet into his shoes and himself into his coat, then dives out the door. 
He takes a deep breath of cold air and shtumps down the path, out the gate, then off along the lane, all the way to the corner of the Gorman's fence then on to where the forest closes in again. With a smile, he picks his way between the trees down to the water.
The loch's flat and glassy as a mirror.
Kieran sits on the bank, hugging his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knees.
Birds chatter back and forth; something splashes off in the rushes.
A white kelpie surfaces, stretches its neck, noses Kieran's ankle.
"Umm, hi?"
The kelpie whuffles, tilts its head, gets Kieran's cuff in its teeth.
"Uh, no? Please?"
The kelpie backs into the loch, dragging Kieran along.
"Hey!"
Kieran's shoes fill with water.
"Let go!"
He's wet to the waist.
"Please! Help!"
Up to his chin.
Kieran swallows a mouthful of water.
Cool water closes over his head, plays with his hair.
Everything's green and soft ... then it's bright and /freezing.
Kieran pries open his eyes.
Mister Ken peers down at him. "Thank heaven yer awrite." He blinks. "Yer alright?"
Kieran coughs, tasting mud, and eases to sitting. "Y-yea. 'm okay."
"Thank the stars."
Kieran shivers, wheezes.
"Here, lemme—" Mister Ken passes his hand between them.
The air /twists, Kieran catches a whiff of summer, and he's as warm and dry as he was leaving the house. "Th-thanks."
"'welcome." Mister Ken repeats his gesture.
Nothing happens.
Mister Ken sighs, closes his eyes, waves again.
Another puff of warm air and Mister Ken's hair fluffs dry.
He huffs, takes a deep breath.
Kieran fills his lungs with stinging air.
Again.
Again.
"How're you feeling?"
"I'm ... I'm /really glad you can swim."
"Every wolf can at least dog-paddle." Mister Ken smiles weakly.
"Th-that's not fu—" A sob chokes off Kieran's voice; he crumples.
Mister Ken pulls him close, strokes his hair, coos, ""Yer alright, yer safe, yer safe.""
They rest together a long while.
Eventually, Kieran whimpers to a stop, pushes away, wipes his eyes on his shoulder.
"Uh, sorry you found out why we have a fence this way." Mister Ken rubs his neck. "They're unpredictable."
"This's h-happened before?"
"No, thank goodness. It's to keep 'em away from me."
"They try to /drown you? No /wonder you can swim!"
"Not exactly drown ... Ailpein—the big white one—just tries to bite me every chance he gets."
A knot of rushes rattles.
Mister Ken jumps to his feet, yells, "Oi!"
Keiran flinches.
"Ailpein! I know that's you! Show yerself!"
The clump approaches, sprouts ears, then rises atop Ailpein's muscled white neck.
The kelpie sulks at them.
"/You did this?" Mister Ken waves at Kieran.
Ailpein glares defiantly.
Keiran swallows.
"He's not a full-blooded selkie, aye? Dunkin' him won't make him sprout flippers."
Ailpein snorts.
"Don't matter what he /smells like, he's like Conall and Isla: human. He /can't /breathe /underwater."
Ailpein tosses his head.
"You'll /kill him if ye do that again, awrite?" Mister Ken spreads his hands. "If you wanna show you're friends, let him put a bridle on ye."
Ailpein pins his ears, sinks under the water.
Mister Ken sighs, plunks back down.
Keiran scootches a hair closer. "So ... um, you speak kelpie?"
"Just guessing. Seemed kinda obvious what he's thinking." He shrugs. "Not sure how much they actually understand, either, but I don't think he'll do that again."
"Why not?"
"'cos I think he's bored and wants a playmate, not t'kill you."
"Wha?"
"Well, Murron and her parents go swimming with the kelpies sometimes and he probably figured you might like it, too." Mister Ken makes a face. "Or I could be giving him too much credit."
Kieran snorts a little laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"It—he—thinks I'm like him 'cos the Ministry says we're both Beasts."
"That's not it! He thinks you're like him 'cos Murron's family plays with him. 'sides, selkies asked the Ministry to be Beasts 'cos they don't wanna be lumped in with the 'evil' vampires."
"Huh?"
"Politics," sighs Mister Ken. He sits straighter. "We should head back and get you some cocoa and break it to Murron she's not getting fresh fish this afternoon."
Keiran accepts the hand up. "Fish?"
"Was trying to catch a few, but there's no chance of anything biting after all that excitement." He smiles. "Lucky we've got an emergency stash in the icebox."
"Yea, lucky."
"Trust me, Murron can get pretty cranky when there's a new baby and she can't get her fish. Makes Ailpein look like a sea sheep."
"Really?"
"Really." Mister Ken side-eyes him. "But I never said that."
"Said what?" giggles Kieran.
"Exactly." Mister Ken starts them strolling for the lane. "Let's get to that cocoa."
"And fish."
"And fish. Right."
.
== Welcome Home ==
27 August 2016 (Saturday); Bodø, Nordland, Norway
«Don't go out too far!» calls Hilde.
«We won't, Mamma!» Anette tosses back as she, Astrid, and Elisabeth splash into the shallows.
Hilde smiles, floats the blanket to the sand, settles herself down.
Astrid and Elisabeth shriek as Anette laughs.
Seabirds cry answers.
Hilde snorts a laugh, pushes her blue coat lower on her shoulders, closes her eyes against the sunlight gleaming on the water of the harbour.
A breeze plays in her hair.
She lets her head fall back.
The girls giggle.
Far off, a seal barks.
Hilde sighs.
Laughter, breezes, birds, waves ....
Footsteps crunch along the shore and a feminine voice asks, ««May I join you?»»
Hilde opens her eyes on a tall woman with dark, dark eyes and inclines her head toward the blanket.
«Thank you.» The stranger flows to sitting. «It's a beautiful day.»
«Mmm.» Hilde lets her eyes fall shut.
««Are those your daughters?»»
«Mhmm.»
««They're lovely girls. You must be so proud of them.»»
«They're my everything.»
The stranger lets out a shaky breath.
Hilde side-eyes her.
«I'm thinking of swimming.» The stranger catches and holds Hilde's eye. «You should join me.»
«The water's too cold.»
The stranger scoffs. «Your daughters are clearly enjoying it.»
Hilde curls more tightly into herself. «I can't swim.»
The stranger laughs. «I'll teach you.»
«If I go into the water, I'll drown.»
«Not with me holding you up.»
Hilde sighs, «I know you mean well, but I can't.»
The stranger lowers her voice, says, «You can't because your 'husband' stole your sealskin.»
Hilde startles. «H-how?»
«I wore a coat much like yours once.»
Hilde gasps. «You ... you're ...?»
«Taken from this same beach and freed on another, far away.»
Hilde wipes away the start of tears.
«Where's your sealskin?»
«M-my husband ... in the attic.»
«Locked by magic?»
Hilde nods, sniffling. «So it's imposs—»
The stranger pats her arm, bobs her chin toward a small woman perched on a rock farther along. «Násti will break the hex.»
«But, my husband—»
«My brothers—» The stranger waves airily at four powerful men, each wearing a sealskin across his shoulder, poised a polite distance behind them. «—will take care of him.»
«But ... how?»
«Did you know the World Council of Wizards outlawed holding sealskins for the purpose of restraining selkies last year?» She grins, eyes gleaming. «The punishment is imprisonment for double the length of time he held you.»
«But—»
«They'll only make sure he's here for the council agents to find.»
Hilde swallows, croaks, «I can't leave my daughters.»
«It need only be temporary.»
«Do you know how long I'll stay away?»
The stranger takes a deep breath. «It will be at least two summers before the sea lets you go.»
Hilde's heart stutters. «Two /years?! I can't leave them alone for—»
«They won't be alone. We'll gather their things and Násti will take them to a home in Scotland.»
«Scotl—why?»
«My sons will be able to look after them there.» The stranger smiles. «They're about the same age.»
«Your ....» Hilde cracks.
Strong arms gather her up; fingers thread into her hair, cradle her head.
««It's alright, sister. You're all safe.»»
«Thank you,» rasps Hilde. «I don't ... what's your name?»
««Áidnu. What's yours?»»
«Hilde.»
Áidnu shakes her head, says kindly, ««Your /true name.»»
She swallows. «Jaská.»
««Welcome home, Jaská.»»
.
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