And then it happens. The wood frame falls heavily on Aaron, glass shattering around his shoulders, a crimson wound opening at his temple. For a moment, everything in the room stops as people flinch at the sound and instinctively move away from the glass. The Housekeeper, like a speck of dirt in the corner of your eye, is gone with a blink. Still tethered by the sailor’s knot, Fiona and I dive into the crowd, fighting to get to Roe.
“Jesus Christ, Maeve,” I hear her call. “Jesus Christ.”
I clamp my free hand on Roe. He turns, his eyes wide and panicked, like an animal.
“Are you OK?”
We both say it at the same time.
At that moment, the Gardaí fly through the door. I recognize Griffin immediately.
“Maeve,” she says, then her eyes fly to Roe. “Rory.”
I can see her making a million tiny judgements, levying a thousand questions and answers in her brain.
“Get out of here,” she says. “Now. Neither of you can afford to be taken home in a squad car. Your parents have been through enough.”
I nod and barge past her, Fiona in tow.
“We can’t just go,” Roe says. “We can’t just leave them.”
“We have to. Do you really want your parents to see a squad car outside their house? Tonight? With you dressed like this?”
He nods.
“Fine.”
And we fall down the stairs, into the street, and to the sounds of sirens outside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE THREE OF US ARE IN DEASY’S WITH OUR ORDER OF CHIPS and curry sauce. We’re not diving in, fighting for the big chips. We’re just staring into space, beginning sentences and then having no idea where to end them. Families are picking up their Saturday night order of fish and chips.
“What … what time is it?” Fiona suddenly asks.
Roe looks at his watch. “Just gone eight.”
“How can it have just gone eight?” she says, dazzled.
“I know,” I agree. “Hate crime always feels like much more of a late evening thing.”
We laugh, despite everything. Despite the fact that there’s blood drying on Roe’s neck. Despite the fact that Fiona and I just crashed a photo frame on a man without even touching it. Despite the fact that we have no idea what’s going to happen to the kids at the cabaret, or how Roe is going to go home without a spare change of clothes.
We laugh. Imagine.
“Do you think this is all part of Children of Brigid’s plan then?” Fiona asks. “To cause riots? Civil unrest, and all that?”
“I guess so,” I shrug. “My sister said that she was attacked recently. In Centra, of all places.”
Roe sinks his head into his hands, pushing his hair back off his face to reveal two pearl earrings. “What am I going to do?”
“You can come to my house. Pat has clothes you can borrow before going home.”
“No, I mean, what am I going to do?” he says, his voice breaking. He gestures to himself in his ripped red velvet. “How am I supposed to live?”
Silence. Neither me nor Fiona can find the words right away to comfort him. This is, after all, not a problem we have. What is he imagining for himself right now? What kind of future is he picturing? One where he gets assaulted in public for being who he is?
This is how bad sensitives prey on people. They make them afraid. This is exactly what Aaron wants to happen. For Roe to stuff himself into as small a box as he possibly can. A butterfly pinned into a frame.
“You’re going to live your fecking life,” I say, trying to summon every bit of authority I can muster. “You’re going to live your life, and you’re going to wear a dress when you want to wear a dress, and go by whatever name you want, and we’ll be here.”
“Maeve…”
“No. Roe. I can’t promise that stuff like this won’t happen again, but I can promise that… I can promise to have your back. For as long as you want it. Or need it. And you too, Fiona. We need each other. You’re the only people I have.”
“I promise, too,” Fiona says looking from me to Roe and back again. “I’m with you as long as you guys are with me.”
“Plus,” she adds bleakly, “you know when they’re done with the gays, they’ll move on to the foreigns.”
Roe gives us a smile, showing his teeth bathed in blood. “All right, all right, this is our Three Musketeers pledge, is it? All for one and one for all?”
“Yes,” Fiona and I both say, fiercely.
“Fine,” he says, smiling even wider. “I promise, too, I’ll kill to protect you two, or die trying.”
We don’t shake on it. We don’t do anything except look at one another under the fluorescent strip lighting of Deasy’s chipper. We’re smiling, but I know we mean it. That we’ve never meant anything like we mean this.
“And we’ve got something else,” Fiona ventures. “We’ve got magic.”
“Oh, Mrs Cynic believes in magic now, does she?” I smile.
“It’s actually Ms Cynic,” she says, sipping her Coke. “What we did in there, Maeve – I still can’t believe it… I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“I’m sorry, what is it you two did?” Roe asks.
“Only saved your life,” Fiona responds curtly.
“Uh-huh. How, exactly?”
I explain, as sanely as I can, the spell with the picture frame, the spell that broke the cold snap, and finally, the failed spell to get Lily back.
“Right,” Roe says, slightly dazed looking. “Right.”
“I believe my response to this was, Maeve, are you insane?” Fiona politely nudges.
“Maybe I got hit by that bottle too hard,” he says, evenly. “Or maybe things have just been too weird lately.”
I let out a short, barking laugh. “You want to talk about weird? I’m a sensitive now.”
Roe and Fiona cock their heads in utter confusion.
“Oh, good,” I reply, slightly relieved. “You haven’t heard of it, either. When the Divination shopkeeper told me, I thought I was the only one who didn’t know what a freaking sensitive was.”
“Well, what is it?” Roe
