Page 10 of Two Hit Wonder

Iona had thought: that girl is terrifying.

And then: I want to be her friend.

And then, somehow, inexplicably, she had been. Swept into Maeve's orbit like she'd never had any choice in the matter. Writing songs in the back of English class. Forming a band in Ellie's garage. Playing their first gig at a local pub when they were far too young to be there. Becoming something, together, before it all fell apart.

Before Maeve fell apart, and took everything else with her.

She's not going to let me in, Iona thought, watching Maeve's face be unreadable. She'd come all this way for nothing. Maeve was going to shut the door, and that would be that, and Iona would have to go back and tell Cam and Ellie that—

Maeve stepped back and opened the door wider. "You're bleeding all over my steps," she said flatly. "It'll never come out."

"I…" Iona blinked. "Right. Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, apologize to the steps." But Maeve was already turning away, walking down a narrow hallway lined with what appeared to be shelves full of vinyl records and books all mixed together in no particular order. "Kitchen's this way."

Iona followed, mostly because she didn't know what else to do.

The cottage was small but surprisingly warm, full of mismatched furniture and the kind of comfortable clutter that suggested someone actually lived here, rather than just existed. A guitar leaned against a chair by the window. An ancient Aga radiated heat in the corner of the kitchen. Iona’s hand throbbed, and she hoped that she wasn’t dripping a trail of blood behind her.

And it smelled like Maeve.

All of it.

That indescribable scent of patchouli and damp and vanilla and wet leaves and something that was just… Maeve.

"Sit," Maeve sniffed, pointing at a wooden chair by the scarred table. She was already rummaging through a cupboard, producing a green plastic first aid box that looked like it had been purchased sometime in the previous century.

Iona sat.

"Hand."

Iona held out her bleeding hand.

Maeve took it without ceremony and began cleaning the wound with antiseptic that stung badly enough to make Iona hiss through her teeth. "Don't be dramatic. It's not deep."

"Your sheep has very sharp teeth."

"Not my sheep."

"She was in your garden."

"She's in everyone's garden. She's escaped from Glinna's flock and refuses to go back. I've tried everything short of physically carrying her. And I wouldn’t want to do that. She bites."

"Yes," Iona said, looking at her hand. "I noticed."

The corner of Maeve's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough that Iona felt something loosen in her chest. This was still Maeve. Under the wariness and the fifteen years of silence, the same dry humor was lurking somewhere.

"Nice cottage," Iona offered, as Maeve wrapped a bandage around her hand with brisk efficiency.

"It's fine."

"Very… remote."

"That's the point."

"Hard to find."

"Again, that’s the point."