Miss Emily by Nuala O'Connor

teeth, and as smoke to the eyes, so is the sluggard to them that send him.’ Is that not what Solomon says, Emily?”
    â€œIf you say so, Father.”
    The egg sets me back for finishing the plucking, which sets me back for getting the slops, which sets me back for starting the wash, which in turn means I will have less time to plan the Christmas feast. I can feel bars of annoyance threading through my spine, but I soften them because that way folly lies. I can hear Mammy saying, “God made time, Ada, but man made haste,” so I decide I will take everything slowly and get it all done, regardless of the chores piling up.
    The kitchen door swings wide and Moody Cook stands there grinning like the newly mad.
    â€œMiss Concannon, a cup of tea and a slice of something delicious, if you please.”
    â€œClose that door and sit down. I’ll get you a bit of soda bread.”
    â€œI’d eat the socks off a dead minister,” Moody says.
    The door opens again, and Daniel slides through; he stands, saying nothing. Something seems to beat off him and glow; he fills the room. I stop like a statue and stare at him, eventually squeaking, “Daniel,” by way of welcome.
    â€œOh,” says Moody, looking between the pair of us. “Oh and oh and oh.” He rubs his hands together. “I will say nothing,” he says, and chuckles to himself, “nothing at all.”
    Daniel looks at me, and my insides loosen and tighten in one quick jolt. “Tea, Daniel?”
    â€œIf you please, Ada.”
    I make tea and slice the bread. I roll some butter into a curl with a spoon and place it before the two of them on a tiny dish; I dollop jam onto a saucer. I cannot find it within myself to sit down, so I bustle about, seeing to my cares, and the two men chatter softly while I lift delft from one spot and place it on another, unsure of what to do with myself or how to behave. What I wish is that Moody Cook would vanish and I could take Daniel to my breast and hold him, right here in the kitchen. I would like to press my mouth to his and feel the heat of him. These wild thoughts nearly make me drop Mrs. Dickinson’s white teapot, but I catch myself, and, face hot, I place it down carefully. Every bit of Daniel Byrne is pleasing to me, from his scalp to his toes, and I feel silly as a day-old chick when he is near me.

Miss Emily Welcomes the Tenth of December

    T HE TENTH OF D ECEMBER DAWNS SNOW-BRIGHT AND COLD . I find a rough package at my bedroom door. I unwrap the brown paper, and inside is a four-pronged cross made with folded rushes. It can only be from Ada. I place the cross over my bed, ready to defend it from Mother and Vinnie and anyone else who steps into my room.
    In the kitchen Ada is wiping brasses with a rag dipped in rum. She rubs and haws, haws and rubs. The sugar-oaky smell of the rum is heady.
    She holds up Vinnie’s needle case to me. “Look at that, Miss Emily, you can see your face as good as in any mirror.”
    â€œHappy birthday, Ada,” I say, and the words, to my surprise, emerge shyly.
    She leaves down her work and stands. “And many happy returns to you, miss.”
    â€œThe cross is beautiful.”
    She knots her fingers in front of her. “I brought it from home. Those are reeds from an Irish river, miss. It’s a St. Brigid’s cross. It keeps evil from the door, so it does. It has been over my own bed since I came, but I want you to have it.”
    â€œAnd now it is over mine. I thank you.” I take out the small box I have been concealing in my pocket and hand it to her.
    â€œThere was no need,” Ada says, but she is pink with pleasure and fumbles open the lid hastily. “Oh, it would take the sight out of your eye.” She lifts the brooch I have given her and mock-pins it to her apron. “I’ve never owned anything like this. Anything as bright and lovely.”
    I had sent Vinnie to Cutler’s to