Free The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh Page B

landward.
“And?” Maeve prompted.
Moira shrugged at Kit, who looked between them with exasperation. “How do you two do that?”
“It’s because we’re witches, according to your creepy brother.” Maeve smirked. “What did he want?”
“He likes you,” Kit said, then added hastily, “but please, please don’t ever tell him I said so.”
Maeve’s mouth fell open.
“Tell her the rest.”
Kit glared at Moira for a second. “And he watches you sometimes when you play the saxophone.”
“All of it,” Moira said.
“Through the window.” Pause. “With a telescope.”
Maeve’s tongue hung from her mouth as if she’d eaten something shockingly bitter. She coughed and danced in circles as the girls choked with laughter, and then she spouted various things in French that Moira understood but Kit did not—that Maeve would be forever scarred by the knowledge and would never play near a window again for the rest of her life—all of which made Moira laugh until her sides ached. Finally, Maeve said something Kit could understand: “That’s disgustipatingly horriflable!”
They giggled for several minutes more as the concert came to an official—if not dignified—end.
THE NEXT DAY began with their regular morning order: “Girls, go find something to do.”
“We can help with Pops—”
“No.”
“We can watch a movie. Daddy rented The Wizard of— ”
“No.” Their mother held an empty plate in one hand and dirty laundry in the other. Beneath her eyes lay dark creases that looked to Moira like crescent moons, dead on their backs. “Go on,” she said. “Do something outside.”
Moira waved to Maeve, and together they walked downstairs. “Let’s practice at the picnic table.”
“No.” Maeve bowed her head. “I thought we could practice in the basement today.”
“Mom said outside, and the basement’s gross.” The cellar air tasted stale and clogged Moira’s nostrils. They didn’t even have chairs down there, just a few bones Maeve thought belonged to a dinosaur, the prow of a wrecked boat, some line Daddy had called the shittiest piece of lash I’ve ever been sold … and spiders. “Forget it. Why would you even want to?”
Maeve rubbed her arms, bit her lip. And then Moira knew.
“You can’t avoid Ian forever!”
“I don’t want him to watch me. How would you feel?”
Moira thought she might not mind so much, but she didn’t want Maeve to know that. “We’ll wait until his driver’s lesson,” she suggested. “He should leave soon.”
“We should take his telescope when he’s gone and break it.”
“You’ll be cranky later if you don’t use your Ian-free time to practice.”
Maeve’s hands danced around her. “Fine. I don’t want to spend my summer in jail for stealing someone’s telescope anyway, especially when that someone isn’t worth jail time and is the one who should really be in jail for peeking around and making girls younger than him so wicked uncomfortable.” She paused. “Unless the jail is air-conditioned.”
Maeve snorted. Moira laughed.
“Plenty of people will be looking at you if we travel the world like gypsies,” Moira said. “You’ll have plenty of admirers.” She tried to leer the way she’d seen a man leer at a woman once in a movie—mouth open a little, eyes piercing—and then she threw in a wink.
Another snort, another giggle.
They waited until they heard the Bronyas’ rumbly old truck heading down the road, then went outside with their instruments. Lilac trees snowed blossoms along the pebbled path in the backyard, and even though the picnic table was in the shade of one of those trees, it was still unseasonably hot.
“Let’s go,” Maeve said, and soon they were in the thick of a classical piece, Trois Romances sans Paroles . But even though Maeve’s line in the first part should’ve been a clean bit of melody, she stumbled through it.
Daddy, who’d emerged from the docks, tapped his fingers against the table, and when Maeve paused