Aine McCallum comes to visit Ogma on Thursday morning; perhaps it's coincidence, since her boyfriend Harry is friends with Owen.

"Preemptive strike," Harry declares, before he backhands Owen in the face. It doesn't seem too hard since Owen just huffs and rubs his cheek, but Alima's the only person who even looks concerned.

"He'll deserve it soon," Marian assures her. "Boy needs someone to hit that pretty face now and then, and he's too old to get spanked."

Aine's hair is earthy brown and irreverently wild. Her eyes are as keen as they are blue when she notices Alima's long braids. "Someone's hair needs restraining," she sings gleefully. "I washed my hair last night, so I've got until lunch before it tangles."

"Girls and their hair," Harry remarks. "It looks fine most of the time."

"Well, you're not the one who has to live with it, sweetie."

"I live with you," Harry points out, and she smacks his shoulder with a laugh.

After accepting a cup of tea from Marian, Aine takes her to the woods. They sit on a sunny crop of boulders by the river; she looks down into the water and experiments with her bangs. "Owen's being sulky," she says around her hair-pin. "Were you asking about Mal?"

"Not directly." She sighs, and takes her hair out. "I mentioned Malachy offered to let me stay at his place, once my stay at the Miller's Mount was up. Then Owen told me--"

"'It's been five years since Malachy Bray let anyone stay at his house,'" Aine repeats, to the very letter.

"Everyone seems to know that." She twists some hair around; her fingers can't decide whether to braid or not.

"Not everyone. It just seems like it since we're his friends. Most in Cloncarrig just know that Mal keeps to himself since his parents died." Aine has been stealing looks at her hair for a minute now; finally she reaches over and tugs at one black lock, grinning in shame like a little girl. "Sorry, I have a bitch of a time resisting if it's not my own hair."

"Don't we all," Alima tells her. "So what happened to Owen?"

"Don't laugh." Aine's mischief is gone now, and she is plaintive like a lost child. "Don't laugh."

The river bubbles through the silence. "I... I'm not going to."

"People called him a changeling," Aine begins. "Said Ita got tricked into sleeping with a Folk man disguised as Oscar, or that Owen hadn't been baptized, or he was born with a caul on... every excuse in the book. Really, they just didn't like that he was gay."

"Isn't Ogma the cunning-man?" She is more experienced with medicine-men and doctors, but none of them are wise to anger, especially regarding their families.

"Ogma is the cunning-man--but Owen's just his crazy gay grandson." Aine tries very hard not to say anything specific, and one blue eye is hidden by the sweep of her bangs. "Owen scares people because he acts like a person, not a movie-gay person. And he believes in the old gods, which doesn't help."

"Old gods?"

"The Tuatha De Danaan," Aine is suddenly more talkative, her hands fluttering like the leaves. "Most of the Irish are Catholic or at least some sort of Christian now, but a lot of us still believe in Danu's People. Dad said I would have been named Jennifer if Ogma hadn't told Mum to call me Aine. I've never drowned, or been lost at sea, or even been sunburned from too much swimming."

"Isn't she the queen of the fairies?" She remembers reading a children's book on the train to Dublin, with lush colors and clear lines.

"She's also Manannan's wife--the sea-god. If you're named after a god, a saint, a hero, it gives you their luck."

"You haven't told me what happened to Owen," Alima remembers suddenly. Aine fiddles with a fallen twig, and she sighs at being thwarted.

"People called him a changeling," Aine repeats, sounding even more lost than before. "They wanted an excuse to kill him."

Worst birthday ever, is all Owen said, like his party got shut down by irritated neighbors.

Alima thinks about her first sight of the town by the cliffs, sleepy and silver-tipped in the night. And then Malachy Bray, who is honey-haired and courteous, but so rarely smiles when his little brother isn't around.

Talk to Aine, Owen's voice drifts in again, echoing deep in her chest. She won't fuck it up or scare you.

She's not scared, no, but loneliness roils in her stomach.

Next Chapter: V: maybe so