Free Bloody Fabulous by Ekaterina Sedia Page B

for him and you can sing for her. For me, when she goes. I won’t have anyone left.”
    “I’m not licensed, Mr. O’Neill. I don’t have permission. I didn’t pass the exam. I didn’t even take it.”
    He looks puzzled. “Why not?”
    Some things are better shown than told. “Come this way, and please ignore my terrible housekeeping.”
    On the mantel in my living room wall is a portrait of my mother in her official garb. Her black gown flows like liquid off her shoulders. Her hair blows backward in the wind. A vintage photo of my grandmother, taken on the moors, is propped next to it. Her wool gown is steel gray, and she wears a frilly shawl.
    “To be a banshee you have to look the part,” I tell him. “I don’t even own a single dress.”
    John scratches his head. “They don’t pay you enough at the airline?”
    “It’s not about money.” I drag him into my bedroom. “There. That’s my closet. That’s what I like and that’s what I wear.”
    For a long moment he stares at the pleated trousers and pants, the pinstripe shirts and wool sports coats, the half-zip sweaters and sweater vests. Boxes of men’s shoes and boots are stacked on the shelves and ties hang neatly on a rack.
    “You wear your boyfriend’s clothes?” he asks.
    I cross my arms over my chest. “They’re mine. Next, ask me if I’m a lesbian. Because that’s what they call women who don’t like to wear frills and lace and dresses barely to the thigh, right?”
    John reaches out and runs his fingers along a linen jacket.
    I wait for him to make some scathing comment.
    He says, “You have great taste. Now, what will it take to get you packed and on a plane for Boston?”
    “You said I can’t say no to an O’Neill,” I tell Maeve. “So here we are.”
    Maeve’s standing at her office door, which is barely cracked open. Through it, she’s eyeing John O’Neill sitting by the coat rack. I left him with Loman, who squeaked like a mouse when I brought a human through the front door. Maeve says, “Handsome one, isn’t he?”
    This is not what I want to hear. “Will you please tell him you forbid me from going to America and singing for his dying mother?”
    Maeve swings open the door. “Mr. O’Neill! Such a pleasure to meet you in person.”
    John quickly stands up. “Thank you. Miss . . . ”
    “Call me Maeve.” She shakes his hand robustly. “Your mother is from Galway, is she? What of her mother before her, and your great-grandmother?”
    “I think they were all from Galway, too.”
    “It suffered terrible damage during the Oídhche na Gaoıthe Móıre,” Maeve said.
    He looks perplexed. “I don’t speak Gaelic, ma’am.”
    “Night of the Big Wind,” I put in. “It was a big storm. Damaged a lot of the country.”
    Historians and meteorologists know it as a devastating windstorm that wrecked houses, sank fishing boats, and brought a large storm surge to many low-lying villages. It also just happened to be the culmination of a century-long Fairy War that scattered the survivors and left a bitter taste for decades. It’s not like Maeve to drop casual refeences to it in conversation, regardless of where John’s great-grandmother might come from.
    “I’m sadly uneducated in Irish history or customs,” John tells Maeve. I don’t think he’s used to looking up to a woman taller than he is. “All I know is that Colleen says she needs your permission to attend to my mother’s passing.”
    “Nonsense!” Maeve exclaims, to my utter shock. “I’m merely a consultant. I would never interfere with such a decision. Our Colleen is her own person, quite independent. As you can tell from her choice of attire.”
    His gaze focuses on me. “I think she looks great.”
    I blush.
    “Go with my blessing,” Maeve says, patting my head. “Send us a message to let us know you arrived safely. And my deepest sympathy to you, Mr. O’Neill, on your losses.”
    Which is how John and I end up as passengers on a British