began to mourn the waste of youthful souls forced to grow old.
"The first thing I must do is see Malachi. He was not at the funeral." Ravenna inspected a chipped cup, then set it on the tray.
"Ye shouldn't be thinkin' of him, child."
Ravenna glanced at Grania and for once was glad for her grandmother's blindness. Malachi seemed a sore subject. She didn't want to risk upsetting her. "But I do think of him," she said tentatively. "He wrote to me, you know. All those years. He had to have Father Nolan pen them, of course, for he cannot read or write, but they were from Malachi nonetheless." Ravenna smiled. The letters had kept her going when despair and loneliness seemed ready to engulf her like a tide. She kept every single precious letter bundled with a blue satin ribbon and even now reread them. Malachi's veiled references to his ongoing troublemaking still made her laugh, and to this day she wondered how he had managed to pass them by the censorious pen of the priest.
"Ye be wary of him, Ravenna. He be a boy no longer." Grania grew quiet.
Ravenna frowned, arranging a plate of shortbread.
"So what'll ye be doin' tomorrow, child, and the day after that, and the day after that? 'Tis the true question I was askin'."
"Perhaps I'll advertise," Ravenna answered evenly, picking up the boiling teakettle. "Yes, that's probably what I'll do. Someday. I'll advertise for a position as governess... or shopkeeper. What do you think of me selling... oh... shoes?" She arched one eyebrow. The first thing she had done when she returned from England was to remove her shoes and walk about the house barefoot like a hoyden, something she'd never been allowed to do at the Weymouth-Hampstead School.
" 'Tis as likely ye to be sellin' shoes as I am to be dancing at a ceili." Grania cackled and rubbed her time-ravaged knees.
Ravenna laughed too and missed her aim at the teapot, sloshing hot water onto the tray.
"But, child, have ye really given serious thought to the future?" The old woman's voice grew raspy as if she were speaking a most pressing thought.
Want and worry crept into Ravenna's eyes. Both she and Grania knew she had to do something with her life, but she couldn't see ever leaving Grania again, for she knew the old woman would probably not live to see her return. Besides, there was indeed something she wanted to do with her life, and she had given it much serious thought, though it seemed an unlikely possibility. Amid the harsh, lonely atmosphere of school, she had turned to living in a fantasy world within her head. It was peopled with beautiful princesses, and knights, and dragons, and sorcerers. At sixteen, she had begun to write some of her adventures down, and now she wanted to keep writing them. She dreamed of having them published, but she was only too aware that any Dublin publisher would accept her only if she were a man, and she had too much pride to submit her works under the false pretense that the author was something she was not. Besides, it infuriated her to think a man's story would be judged better than hers simply because a man told it. She was determined that her writing would be judged by content and not by her sex.
"Ye haven't answered me, child."
She looked up at Grania. Hesitating to speak what could only remain a dream, she murmured, "I told you. I'll most likely go to Dublin and advertise."
"And when will ye be doin' that?" Grania sat in a straight chair, leaning on her blackthorn, her old bones uncomfortable in the worn upholstered armchair.
The fragility of her age made Ravenna ache inside. It wasn't fair to know a loved one only at the end of her years. Grania had lived a whole life that Ravenna could know just a small part of. "I hadn't planned on going so soon. Are you chasing me off?" she teased.
"No, child, it's just that..." Grania paused.
"It's just that, what? Have we money problems? If so, I will find work at once. But you must promise to come to Dublin with me."
" 'Tis not work I'm
"The first thing I must do is see Malachi. He was not at the funeral." Ravenna inspected a chipped cup, then set it on the tray.
"Ye shouldn't be thinkin' of him, child."
Ravenna glanced at Grania and for once was glad for her grandmother's blindness. Malachi seemed a sore subject. She didn't want to risk upsetting her. "But I do think of him," she said tentatively. "He wrote to me, you know. All those years. He had to have Father Nolan pen them, of course, for he cannot read or write, but they were from Malachi nonetheless." Ravenna smiled. The letters had kept her going when despair and loneliness seemed ready to engulf her like a tide. She kept every single precious letter bundled with a blue satin ribbon and even now reread them. Malachi's veiled references to his ongoing troublemaking still made her laugh, and to this day she wondered how he had managed to pass them by the censorious pen of the priest.
"Ye be wary of him, Ravenna. He be a boy no longer." Grania grew quiet.
Ravenna frowned, arranging a plate of shortbread.
"So what'll ye be doin' tomorrow, child, and the day after that, and the day after that? 'Tis the true question I was askin'."
"Perhaps I'll advertise," Ravenna answered evenly, picking up the boiling teakettle. "Yes, that's probably what I'll do. Someday. I'll advertise for a position as governess... or shopkeeper. What do you think of me selling... oh... shoes?" She arched one eyebrow. The first thing she had done when she returned from England was to remove her shoes and walk about the house barefoot like a hoyden, something she'd never been allowed to do at the Weymouth-Hampstead School.
" 'Tis as likely ye to be sellin' shoes as I am to be dancing at a ceili." Grania cackled and rubbed her time-ravaged knees.
Ravenna laughed too and missed her aim at the teapot, sloshing hot water onto the tray.
"But, child, have ye really given serious thought to the future?" The old woman's voice grew raspy as if she were speaking a most pressing thought.
Want and worry crept into Ravenna's eyes. Both she and Grania knew she had to do something with her life, but she couldn't see ever leaving Grania again, for she knew the old woman would probably not live to see her return. Besides, there was indeed something she wanted to do with her life, and she had given it much serious thought, though it seemed an unlikely possibility. Amid the harsh, lonely atmosphere of school, she had turned to living in a fantasy world within her head. It was peopled with beautiful princesses, and knights, and dragons, and sorcerers. At sixteen, she had begun to write some of her adventures down, and now she wanted to keep writing them. She dreamed of having them published, but she was only too aware that any Dublin publisher would accept her only if she were a man, and she had too much pride to submit her works under the false pretense that the author was something she was not. Besides, it infuriated her to think a man's story would be judged better than hers simply because a man told it. She was determined that her writing would be judged by content and not by her sex.
"Ye haven't answered me, child."
She looked up at Grania. Hesitating to speak what could only remain a dream, she murmured, "I told you. I'll most likely go to Dublin and advertise."
"And when will ye be doin' that?" Grania sat in a straight chair, leaning on her blackthorn, her old bones uncomfortable in the worn upholstered armchair.
The fragility of her age made Ravenna ache inside. It wasn't fair to know a loved one only at the end of her years. Grania had lived a whole life that Ravenna could know just a small part of. "I hadn't planned on going so soon. Are you chasing me off?" she teased.
"No, child, it's just that..." Grania paused.
"It's just that, what? Have we money problems? If so, I will find work at once. But you must promise to come to Dublin with me."
" 'Tis not work I'm
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