It's crisp that morning. Early enough in the day where there is still a biting coolness to the air that lingers on fingers and noses and cheeks. She has a slight spring in her step, a small smile on her face, and she's grasping a small basket in her hand as she walks down the street. Heels clacking against the cobblestone, she mumbles "excuse me's" and "thank you's" as she weaves in and out of the people around her. It's not normally crowded, not on a Thursday especially, but there's people milling around.

Maybe they can feel her excitement. It doesn't feel tense. In fact, it feels like a normal early spring day as it would every April, cool and crisp.

She turned at the sight of the newspaper boy, greeting him with the smile and handing him one halfpenny for the paper.

It wielded no great insight in the world or the continent but did give her a rather good laughing in the small cartoons at the back of the paper. It took most of her walk to work before she was finished and handed it off to one of the men waiting at the end of Weavers Street.

The walk to work didn't take long and she arrived soon, the bell jingling and door knob clicking. "Dia duit!" she greeted, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the hanger next to the door.

"Dia is Muire duit," the old man behind the counter, Mr. Murphy, greeted. "You're here early. Not that I'm complaining of course, but any particular reason?"

She breathed and smiled, wrinkling her nose, "I do just like April mornings, I have to spend as much time as I can in them before it becomes May."

"Oh, yes, yes," Mr. Murphy agreed, "But it's only the second day and you've got the whole month to enjoy them."

"Barely half," she lamented, turning around the counter of the shop, "Second half of the month it's not crisp enough, not cool in the air. I have to savor the two weeks I have left!"

"Mhm, yes- oh, grab that for me, yes, thank you."

"And anyway," Maeve went on, "You need as much help as you can get. My mother sent me to help you, how can I do that if I don't show up a little early and get this shop open."

"I've opened it on time for the past thirty years," Murphy said, shaking his head, "but a little help I'll never turn down."

Maeve smiled and got to work, stacking up the books and the arranging the front display. The light rose over the surrounding buildings, a church bell rang through the streets, and the front door sign was flipped from closed to open.

Shop traffic was slow, but Maeve was generous with her time and carefully kept tasks aside for her to do in between down time. She rearranged a second row of books, kept aside another stack for reassessment and delivery, and then went back to helping a customer who entered some few minutes ago.

Mid-day came and went, the sun shifted over the skies and then disappeared behind clouds, the day becoming a misty April Thursday. She wistfully read a book as the customer count trickled to a low zero customers an hour. The Mid-day became the afternoon, and Murphy returned to the front of the store from the back with a small crate from delivery.

"New bindings from America," he sighed, "reprints mostly."

She straightened up, peering into the crate. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

He glanced up, "Why?"

Maeve bit her lip. "Well, sir, you see. I was wondering if I could leave a little earlier today. I have a friend in town that I haven't seen in a few months and-."

"Oh, go ahead. Not a bother atallatall," Murphy said, "These can wait for the morning."

"Now?" Meave asked, surprised.

"Why not," the old man said, "You got here early enough, business is slow. Bring me some of your mothers' sourdough bread, we'll call it even?"

Meave grinned, leaving behind the counter for her coat. "I'll be here even earlier tomorrow, with bread, and I'll work late."

"No need for that!" Murphy called. "Stay dry!"

"Slán!" Maeve called back, already out the door. She heard a vague yell back but was already hurrying out the mist, securing her hat to her head, her heels clacking against the stone. She did not head home. Instead, she turned away and headed in the opposite direction. Her destination was still some ways away, but the mist was clearing up, as much as it could. Instead she found herself at a nearby park, sitting underneath the canopy of a large tree, tapping her foot against the ground.

She hummed a tune, watched the people pass by her, and waited for the evening bell to ring at six. She stood up as the bell rang and chimed through the street and hurried along the road. It wasn't often a woman her age would be out this late, but she had her meeting to get to.

She greeted several of the people on the road, stopped only briefly to discuss the news from the Castle, and then went on her way. It would not do well for her to be recognized by people she knew going to where she was going and it was not like Maeve could exactly be seen by people. The walk there was filled with building anticipation. She could feel the excitement filling her stomach and a small grin was pulling at the corner of her lips.

Maeve turned around a corner and slammed into a chest of a well dressed man. "Oh! Excuse me!" she exclaimed.

The man, dark hair and blue eyes, stared. He looked quite shocked and stood shock still as Maeve recovered. "You're Irish."

She blinked up at him, brow furrowed. "You're English."

"Why are you-?"

"We're in Ireland," Maeve said, "In Dublin?"

He nodded slowly, blinking. "Yes, yes I know that. I meant, ah, nothing actually. I apologize for running into you, I should've paid more attention where I was going."

She smoothed out her dress, "Yes, well, thank you. I should've looked as well."

"My fault," he went on, "I was in a hurry. Still am, actually."

"I have a meeting to get to, actually, so if you'll excuse me-."

"Hey!"

"Oh dear," the Englishman whispered, "So sorry, I think I've dragged you into something."

She jerked her head back. "What?"

Behind the Englishman, further down the alley, came three men sprinting toward them. Maeve gasped and then the Englishman grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of their initial meeting spot and down the road. They crossed the street and into an opposing small alleyway. She'd barely a moment to breathe or realize that she was running through the Dublin streets with a man she'd only just met from another three men that had appeared from nowhere.

They turned down another road, their pace slowing to a brisk walk. She struggled to keep up.

"You need to let go of me," she said, "Immediately." She paused to breathe, lowering her voice, "Please, sir."

"I'm afraid they saw me with you," he replied, grimacing, "Just a little while longer. Until we lose them."

She glanced over her shoulder, but didn't see the men. She hurriedly turned back around. "Are they still following us?"

The Englishman barely glanced over his shoulder before their pace sped up again. "Yes, to the left down the road. Turn right down this street."

They quickly cut right at his push and Maeve was caught going past her meeting location. It was the front, she'd been hoping to come around the back and avoid anyone she would know. She looked up at the Englishman. "That's where I was heading! Can't I just go in?"

"And have them follow you?" he breathed, "At least let me get you to safety, can it wait?"

"You certainly would think so," she muttered under her breath. Raising her voice, she said, "No, I suppose not."

He must've heard her, from the glance he gave her, but said nothing. They continued on, still walking briskly, the mist growing to heavier and steadier rain. They weaved in and out of crowds that were dwindling down as the rain hardened and supper time came and went. The Englishman had weaved his arm through hers with a whispered question for permission. Maeve had opened it in response.

Thankfully, they had left any part of the city where they would run into anyone she knew.

"To the left, now," he whispered, whipping them both to the side. She stumbled only briefly over her own feet and straightened up. They pulled themselves into the alley and then quickly the Englishman opened a door in the wall and pushed them both inside.

He slammed the door and moved to rest his ear against it. After a few moments, he stood straight.

"Alright," he said aloud, "we should keep moving."

"Now just wait a moment," she said, and then huffed under her breath. "Sir."

He stared at her. There was barely any light in the small wash room. "What?"

Maeve sputtered. "Well I don't know you! You've dragged me halfway across Dublin and I don't even know if I should've let you do that. Are you some troublesome slíbhín? Or did you do something? Wrong side of the law?"

The man grinned and then immediately cleared his throat, the smile leaving his face. "I'm sorry. I saw them doing something they should not have. I, eh, if they saw us talking it would have been quite bad. I do apologize for bumping into you and then dragging you across the city."

She nodded firmly. "Thank you, I appreciate your apology."

"Well thank you appreciating it, I didn't mean to, well, there's no excuse. I'm afraid I thoroughly ruined your evening."

Maeve scrunched up her nose but smiled. "I think regardless it was going to be quite exciting."

Ernest seemed to light up. "Oh? And what did you have planned?"

"Just my meeting," Maeve answered, "That's all."

"With whom? I don't mean to pry. I'll shut up," Ernest said and Maeve swore she could see his face turn red in the dark.

"At the hotel-."

There was a bang at the door and the Englishman jumped, raising his hand toward it.

Maeve grabbed his wrist as he had before with her and pulled him through the hall. "What's your hand going to do? Will you slap him?"

The Englishman stammered behind her. Another resounding bang rand through the building signified the door being slammed against the brick.

"What did you see!?" she yelled as they stomped up stairs. It was an abandoned shop front. Above was left empty.

"Nothing good," the Englishman replied.

They brushed into a parlor room and then went through a front door. They arrived in the pouring rain, in the dark, on an empty street.

"Left!" she said as he called, "Right!"

She yanked him to the left and so left they went, running down the road with only the lights from the windows on the street level lighting their way. She had a vague idea where they were, but going back to anyone's home that she knew would end in disaster. How could she show him, drenched and panting, with an Englishman in tow?

She's rather swim to Wales in a storm. Or throw herself off the cliffs in Cork. She had family there, it was the perfect excuse to go visit.

"I know where we can go," the Englishman said.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she replied, pulling him along. He followed willingly, his steps falling short behind hers.

"A little too late for that."

"You made me miss my meeting, so we'll go where I say," she said and then added on, "Sir."

He let out a heavy breath. They were back to walking briskly again, now side by side in a thin alley toward a side street. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Call me sir."

"Mar dhea. Forgive me if I ignore that."

He huffed.

Thankful that the Englishman could not understand a lick of Irish, Maeve had no qualms talking in whatever language she damn well pleased if it made the Englishman uncomfortable.

"Please let me take you to some place safe, or at least warm? Dry?"

She almost stopped walking. She paused a moment and pursed her lips.. They were back to walking side by side now. Arms no longer linked together, they now walked with their shoulders, or rather her shoulder and his arm, brushing together.

"You return to a place, possibly with me, with you, we're both wet and have clearly been out running around for hours, how would that go over? We can go back to my home, my house, no questions asked. You can dry your clothes and sleep well and return the next morning to where you need to go."

She did not want to admit that she'd been thinking the same thing. They could not go back to her home.

"We could split up?" she asked. They'd never see each other again, and her midnight adventure would be one for tales further down the line. Maybe when she was married and with children. Oh yes, I ran around Dublin from some strange men with an Englishman that I'd never met before. Oh no, I had never seen him again!

How funny would that be? And how marvelously wonderful was it? Like a story her mother used to tell her when she was a child, when Maeve sat with her on the cliffs in Cork and listened to her dilly-dallying tales that didn't make much sense when Maeve dwelled on them.

"If you want," he said quietly, "I can't stop you. At least then let me escort you home. I dragged you away from it, let me return you there."

"Is your home close?" she asked.

"Only a few minutes," he breathed, "just down the road. It's a friends, actually, but they're back home. I'm using it while I'm here."

"He won't mind," Maeve said, "if you bring a guest?"

"He won't even know," the Englishman said.

"There they are! Get back here!"

"Oh feck," she whispered. He jerked back at her language, which wasn't that bad considering the situation they were in, but nonetheless they both began running again full speed away from the men.

"Oh, what did you see!" she insisted, hiking up her skirts further. She didn't mind if any man saw her ankles or legs at this point, she had bigger things to worry about.

A gun cracked and above their heads a wooden sign splintered into pieces.

The Englishman cursed in something that was decidedly not English and rached to grab her wrist and pull her further ahead. They turned down a street and up another and round several shops, storefronts, and houses. Most of these streets were deserted, the further they got from the Castle they would be, and no amount of British Soldiers wanted to be out in the deep Irish rain.

The Englishman, who seemed to be muttering something under his breath, pulled her along the streets before they came to a more well lit and expensive area. She should've guessed, of course, from his suit, that he had money. Or rather, he knew people at least with money. But the houses were all the well-lit and expensive row homes that filled Dublin town with the streets of London. She had never had any inclination to stay in one of these straying boulevards but circumstances change and she figured this was the Englishman's friends home.

They must've finally lost the men chasing them, with guns, as they'd slowed to steady and easy walk. The sidewalk, swept clean with the rain, wandered down the tree-lined street.

"My house is just up the road. We have to walk calmly, in case any one is peering from the windows," he said under his breath. It was hard to hear from the rain, but Maeve nodded and walked next to him, threading her arm through his again.

"We lost them?"

"I think so," he said, unlinking his arm and moving forward to open an iron fence up to the walk of the house. Brick stairs and a whitewashed facade, the house would've been beautiful maybe in the daytime. But, now, in the rain and dark, it looked almost sad. She wouldn't want to live there.

They walked up the stairs and he unlocked the door. They stepped in, the door was shut, and finally they stood in a dry space, well lit when he flicked on lights (lights!) and most importantly dry.

They stood staring at each other. Now, finally, she'd get a good look at him. Dark hair and blue eyes, pale, like her, with a red tipped nose and red cheeks from the cold. His suit looked expensive and could've been seen as well-polished had it not been dripping all over the floors. Her unfortunate dress, an old olive green, was brown at the bottoms, and her coat was soaked almost completely through.

He was quite handsome with his clear eyes and straight nose. His hair was dripping wet and it stuck to his forehead humorously. She didn't know quite what to say, because what does one say exactly in this situation? He opened his mouth and then closed it and then shook his head.

He stuck out his hand, "Ernest."

She shook it delicately. "Maeve."

"That's pretty," he said, shrugging off his coat. "How do you spell that?"

He reached out her own jacket and slowly she handed it to him. "M-a-e-v-e. That's the English way anyway. Thank you."

"Welcome," he muttered, taking both jackets. "You can head to the parlor. Would you like some tea?"

"Don't you suppose it's a bit late?"

He blinked. "Can't sleep now. You don't have to accept."

"Don't be ridiculous, I am a guest in your home."

"And I'm a guest in this home."

She paused. "I'll have some tea, thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, and then blinked owlishly as he turned away. He paused as he got down the hall and turned around. "You'll need dry clothes."

"I don't have any, obviously."

He nodded. "Yes, yes. I know. Just a moment, I'll see if I can find any for you."

"Oh," she exclaimed, "no you don't-." But he was already off down the hall. "-have to. Alright." She turned around in the hallway. To the right was the parlor and on the left wall was a staircase that led up. Down the hall was another door, a closet, and then the kitchen and stairs down toward a cellar.

Before she could commit to the parlor he arrived back again still dripping wet and holding dry womens clothes.

"This should do, I hope they fit," he said as he offered them to her.

She could barely touch the cloth before she looked up at him. "These are far too expensive, I couldn't."

"Consider them a temporary gift, then, if you don't want to sleep in wet clothes."

She shook her head. "Alright, fine. What will I do with these?" She hefted up her wet skirt just high enough for it to suction off her leg and socks. Her shoes stuck out, a sleek olive underneath the lights.

"I'll hang them to dry with mine and in the morning I'll have them ready for you," he said, almost cheerily. She looked at him again. He couldn't be that much older than herself, but there were lines under his eyes that suggested weariness. And his eyebrows furrowed up almost as if he were perpetually apologetic. "Up the stairs, turn immediately right and there's a guest room. Here, take these, and put the old ones outside."

She collected the garments slowly. "And then tea?"

"And then tea," he said.

She walked up the steps, taking in the wooden banister and the white painted walls, and turned right into a neatly and fancily decorated room. She clicked the door shut behind her, hesitated only a moment, and then locked it.

Stripping off wet clothes was never fun. When she'd been younger, back in Cork, her and her cousins had ran straight to the beach one afternoon. No working, no school. They had been free to do as they wished. They'd change into their bathing clothes and run up and down in the waves swimming in the salty water for hours. Coming back, sand in her toes, and fingernails, and hair, they'd one by one strip out of the wet suits, peeling it from their skin and changing from dampness to dryness.

This had the same feeling. Peeling cotton and wool from her body that was heavy with rain and changing into drier clothes. She sat the wet stuff out on a chair next to her door and then closed the door again, standing in the room and looking all around it. A small jewelry box that she didn't dare touch and some photographs. A dresser, very beautifully made, and wonderful covers made this the nicest room she'd stayed in. She patted down her hair with the face towel by the washbasin attempting to get it as dry as possible before giving up and tossing it to the side.

She heard footsteps outside the door, her clothes being taken from the chair, and then steps receding down the stairs.

Letting out a breathe she did not know she was holding, Maeve straightened the fine dress she'd been lent and turned to open the door. No one was there, as expected, but she was still almost disappointed. She stepped down the stairs quietly, hand lightly touching the wood of the banister, and appeared in the parlor a moment later. It was also well-lit, or would have been, but he'd turned off the lights and let candles fill the space. She sat down on the expensive cushioned couch and waited, looking around the room.

Like the guest space upstairs, it was well-decorated, filled with taste. Books from authors she was well acquainted with sat on a tall bookshelf. Other authors that she did not know caught her eye, slowly she stood up and ran her fingers over the expensive editions.

Her distraction did not allow for her to hear him arrive, and when he stepped into the parlor with a tray of steaming tea and what appeared to be coffee. She practically leapt back from the bookshelf and all her earlier confidence in dealing with the Englishman, with Ernest, had disappeared like the steam from the tea.

"Sorry," she breathed, eyes flicking down toward the floor as he moved to set the tray down.

"For what?" he asked.

"Your books, I shouldn't have touched them."

He smiled calmly. "They're meant to be held, I don't see the problem." He turned from her then and went about setting up the tea and the coffee, because it was coffee and it smelled much better than any coffee house Maeve had been too.

She was fortunate that her father worked as a merchant bringing goods over from England, redistributing them and selling them and working with the trade laws. He was a firm supporter of the crown and it's law. But he'd once been given a crate of coffee goods. She and her sister, who was ten years Maeve's younger, her brother denied any affiliation with them, had snagged a bag of the beans and attempted to make their own coffee.

It had been terrible.

But this smelled much stronger and far more delicious than that bean water had at all.

"I made tea for you, coffee for myself. But you can help yourself to either," he said, pouring the water over the leaves. "I'm more of a coffee person myself, I know. Blasphemy. But it's too good to ignore."

She almost laughs as she sits down, but there's a nervousness setting in now. She's in a strange man's home, a strange Englishman's home. No one knows where she is. It's late, later than she'd ever been out and away from home. She doesn't know this man or his life. He has money, or knows money, and speaks well and clearly and comes from somewhere like London or one of the other bigger English towns.

"Thank you," she said quietly, accepting the cup of tea.

"Welcome," and he takes the seat across from her.

They sit in silence for only a few moments and it's clear the Englishman, Ernest, is struggling to find something to say. She can't blame him, she wants him too, but Maeve also wants to go lie down in that bed and leave for the morning and never think of this again.

"I am sorry about your meeting. I know you said it wasn't important," he paused, "Well, that it wouldn't have been important to me, but it clearly was to you."

"Yes," she said slowly, knowing she had to think of her words carefully again. "But there will be another, and I can go then. I do have work in the morning though. I'll have to get up early. I'll need to stop by my home and change clothes and then go."

Ernest nodded. "Yes, of course. I understand. Thank you for being willing to be dragged along by me."

She grimaced. "I don't think I had much a choice, but I do admit you were better than the men you were running from. Which I still don't have an explanation for."

Ernest, who had swept back his hair with his fingers, a nervous tick, and left it sitting almost straight up, smiled shyly. His cheekbones were sharp and his eyes crinkled with humor. He ran his fingers through it again and then patted it down nervously. "Ah, yes. You see, I'm into antique books."

"Antique books?" she asked.

"Old books, um, sometimes medieval books if I can find them, but just old books. I have quite the collection, you see, back home. I'm here because I was looking for an old book and I'd been bouncing around several shops and dealers. One man led me to a home, a should have known as he was a shifty looking character, and when I opened the door I stumbled into some men who were not the type of fellows you'd want to run into on the street. I think someone else is after this book too, or a group. One pulled a gun and then I, uh, ran," Ernest said, blinking at the wall as if he couldn't believe his own words.

"A gun? You didn't go to the police?"

"I haven't had the time, now have I?" Ernest replied, face colored red. "And anyway, I ran into you and they would've assumed something, that you were an accomplice, and so we both had to run."

"I'll admit," Maeve said shyly, "I never ran across Dublin in the pouring rain with a strange man before."

"It's a pretty town," he said, and then sipped at his coffee. "I do like it here."

"You'd be the only one," she found herself saying. They both looked at each other and Maeve stuttered. Where was her earlier bravery? Where was her bravado? Why couldn't she look at this invader and tell him how she felt about his people?

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, if you've been living here, I do have a question for you."

"Alright," he said, "Go right ahead, I think it's fair you get some answers."

She narrowed her eyes. "When we bumped into each other and I said excuse me, you looked at me and then said 'You're Irish'. But you're in Ireland. You're living currently in Dublin. In Ireland. So why were you surprised?"

He blinked. And then his ears got red. "I don't know."

She stared back. "Alright."

They both sipped their cups.

He lowered his coffee. "You just look like someone I'm familiar with, or rather, you did at first. Your voice surprised me."

She sat up. "Someone you knew?"

"Just your hair, actually, it's the same color. Black."

"Dark brown," she corrected, "Though I do not blame you for seeing it wrong. And anyway, it's a common color. Anyone who has black hair remind you of her?"

He hadn't said it was a her, but Maeve had guessed. His ears got almost redder. "It doesn't matter anyhow."

No, Maeve thought, it didn't. She sipped her tea.

"You're from London?" she asked.

"I live there, or rather, I have a home there. But, eh, no. I'm from further the South," Ernest answered honestly. "London is pleasant, but it, honestly, it smells."

She let out a sharp laugh, surprising herself. "It smells?!"

"Of oils, or grease. The nicer areas are of course nice but anywhere beyond that," he shook his head. "Not so great. You're from Dublin?"

Maeve hesitated. "Cork, well. My mother is from County Cork, my father from Galway. But we grew up first down south and then moved here when I was still young."

He nodded. "I've never been to Cork," he admitted, "But I have Galway."

They sat in silence again. She cleared her throat.

"So. Books."

He peered up at her. "Books. I collect them."

"I work at a bookshop, but I don't think we'd have anything you'd like," Maeve said. "And anyway, they're mostly prints from America, or England."

Ernest smiled. "Favorite author."

"I don't have one," she admitted, "I read one book and I enjoy it and love it and then I read another by a completely different author and fall in love with that. I just can't make myself commit to anyone if they're just so wonderfully different and full of good things. I can't favor one over the other."

Ernest, who clearly was at the very least a nice person, grinned even further. "I completely understand. I read a book some time ago that I fell in love with. Beautifully written and the author captured the hearts of the characters so well. And then, the next month, I had purchased another book and fell in love with that."

Maeve, who understood completely, nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, I think the thing I appreciate the most is dialogue. It has to sound natural, you know?"

"I do," Ernest said, his coffee forgotten as he leaned forward on the sofa. "For me, it's the words that describe the objects around the characters. Is the place they're existing in believable? It matters for the immersion, I get lost in books to often, and I think it matters how they interact with the world around them."

Maeve, who suddenly felt tired, smiled. "So this book you're after, why do you think someone else would want it?"

"It's quite valuable," Ernest said, his smile melting from his face. "I think I asked around a little too well. Some Englishman comes looking for a book, asking around, getting in place he most certainly is not welcome, well, other people begin looking into it too. The house was obviously a set up to get rid of me, or maybe take my research."

"Research?" Maeve asked, "What are you researching?"

Ernest barely let his hesitation known before he spoke, "I have an interest in history, anything really. This book, it, well, it's an important part of history. Or a record really. It's worth a lot of money. Assuming it exists."

Maeve frowned. "These men were willing to kill for a book that might not even exist?"

Ernest grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair again. "What do I know?"

Maeve yawned then and immediately blushed red. "Forgive me, I don't know what came over me."

"It's late," Ernest said. "We should sleep."

Maeve was a little disappointed. She wanted to learn about this impossible possible book, the record, that some men were willing to kill for. A good mystery had landed right on her lap. But Maeve's live did not revolve around books and plots and, in fact, she wanted to return to the normalcy she'd been offered for the whole of her life.

They both stood up, Maeve wondering if he even could sleep with the coffee he had drunk. He seemed far more relaxed than earlier, though she could hardly call sprinting around Dublin relaxed. His shoulders were dropped and he had an easy smile on his face. Far less uptight than any other rich man she'd seen walking around Dublin, he had an easy-ness about him.

He waited for her to leave the room and they both walked up the stairs, the lights flicking off behind them.

"Goodnight, Maeve," he said as she went to close the bedroom door. She stopped but did not turn around.

"Goodnight, Ernest. Thank you," she said quietly, softly shutting the door behind her. She locked it again after a moment's hesitation and then slipped off the skirt and bodice of the dress. The bed was warm and soft and she fell asleep almost as easily as she had the night before.

The next morning, Maeve woke from the bed by springing up, her hair flying wildly over her shoulders. She looked around the room.

"Not my home," she whispered. She ran her hands over her face. "Not my home," she repeated for good measure. "Ernest's. Right. Englishman. Rain. Running. Oh, god."

Her mother must be worried sick. Of course, Maeve had thought that of course her mother and father would be worried for her, but she'd been so caught up in getting away from the men with guns that were chasing after her and Ernest that sitting down and having tea around midnight and talking about books had distracted her weariness well-enough that the thought hadn't even set in. She had work, no change of clothes, and no excuse for where she'd been going. Her parents and Mr. Murphy were under the impression she was going to visit a friend from out of town.

They'd no knowledge of anything past that, and the meeting had only been yesterday. She'd no idea how else to join, not knowing what had occured last night in the hotel.

She swung her legs from the bed and found a note slipped under the door.

Maeve,

I have left for you your clothes from last night. I know it is not ideal, but they are dry. I will have breakfast waiting if you would like to join me. I feel terrible for taking you along with me for our adventure last night. Apologies again,

Ernest S.

She sighed and laid the note down on the dresser. "Alright, Ernest," she muttered, "you too good for nothing stupid, idiotic pleasantly nice book collector. I'll have breakfast."

And so she grabbed the dried clothes (that smelled faintly of Lavender and was that honey?) and changed them out for the borrowed ones. It felt good to be back in her own clothes. There was something comforting about the green wool and the familiarity of scent of home. She stood more comfortably in the room then almost finding it laughable that less than ten hours ago she'd been standing in those same clothes dripping wet and soaked to the bone.

With one last final look, she slipped from the room and down the stairs. Having expected to eat in some formal dining room, Maeve was greeted with the sight of Ernest dressed ready for the day with breakfast set up in the parlor. He stood looking out the window, peering through lacey blinds. He glanced up when she appeared on the stairs.

"How do you say it, maidin maith?" he asked, voice turning up with the question.

She gave him a look, eyes wide. "Labhrionn tu Gaeilge?"

Ernest answered in English, "I speak a little."

Maeve's face grew red and she stopped on the last step of the staircase. "Oh. Oh no. That means you understood me the whole time."

Ernest poured some milk in a glass for her. It was a light breakfast. Some slices of meat over toast and then some fruit. "Maybe, but that's alright. I didn't mind, and you didn't say anything rude about me."

Maeve narrowed her eyes. "That you know of."

And then they both laughed.

"I made breakfast," Ernest exclaimed excitedly, and then hurried around the sofa to show her the spread.

It occured to Maeve that he seemed excited for a guest, for company, and then perhaps the weariness from his eyes was not from searching for his valuable book but maybe from loneliness. Ernest was excited to have a guest, to have someone there. And Maeve was almost excited to experience it. He seemed pleased when she sat down and took a few fruit and some toast for her plate. She declined the tea though and instead pulled the plate onto her lap and relaxed into the sofa.

"You didn't have to," she said, although secretly grateful.

"You're my guest," Ernest replied, "And anyway, I was wondering if you would be alright if I escorted you to work? I wouldn't enter with you and I can even drop you off further down the road if you don't want to be seen with me but I thought it was the least I could do."

"If you'd like," Maeve agreed, "but it has to be about twenty meters from the door, no more no less. And you bring me home tonight."

Ernest blinked but nodded. "Alright, I can do that."

Maeve bit her toast. It was delicious.

It was crisp morning on the 3rd of April. It was a colder year. Maeve's hand lingered on the door handle as they left the house together, Maeve in a borrowed jacket because hers had not finished drying, and Ernest in his nice coat and hat. They linked arms and strolled down the pleasant lane until they entered the city streets and weaved through the throngs of people.

"I'm feeling sound grand," she said to him as they ducked into one of the many alley's they'd walked through last night, "Despite the adventurous night."

"I'll admit," Ernest said as he leaned down, "I do feel well."

Maeve smiled and soon they arrived on the street of her work. Like he'd promised, they stopped some twenty odd meters from the bookshop, and they unlinked their arms.

She felt an unsettling feeling encroach on her but shook it off. "I just hope no one I know saw me. Walking down the street with a strange man they'd never seen before," she shook her head, "I'd be dead."

"Hopefully not then," he almost teased, "I'm glad I had the adventure with you, Maeve-."

"Connolly," she said.

He kissed her hand. "Maeve Connolly."

She almost had the urge to grab his hand and kiss it back to see what he would do. "And you?"

He looked down. "Ernest Stafford."

She nodded and gathered herself to go. As she departed, she turned and gave him a small wave. "Goodbye, Ernest Stafford. Perhaps I'll see you around."

"For now," he said softly, but she was already gone.

][][][

The bookshop had both Mr. Murphy, her mother, and her younger brother standing there.

"Oh, Maeve!" her mother exclaimed, rushing forward to hug her daughter. Her brother and Mr. Murphy both looked relieved and Maeve realized that she should've been more concerned with what her family would think than she had been.

Her mother grasped her face. "Where have you been dearie? Your father and I have been worried sick and we spent all night looking for you. Oh you poor thing, where you've been?"

"I met Elizabeth at the hotel," Maeve breathed, "We spent longer than we thought together and then with the rain we thought we'd wait it out. And then it just kept going you see and so since her home was closer we went there. I should've rang but she doesn't have a telephone!"

It was a partial truth. Maeve had spent longer than she thought she would with Ernest, and his home had been closer. Though she knew she'd seen a phone back by the door for the kitchen. It just simply hadn't occurred for her to say anything at all. And coffee and tea had distracted her, and Ernest was, well, so ernest, she couldn't very well say no.

Her mother grasped her shoulders.

"Now is not the time for running about," and then before Maeve could slightly defend herself, her mother turned back to Mr. Murphy. "I don't think Maeve will be working today. Or ever again, I never liked the idea of her working and now-!"

"Mam," Maeve gasped, "I hardly think this qualifies as a reason for me-."

"Now, Mrs. Connolly," Mr. Murphy assured, "Maeve is a smart lass, she works well here and the customers love her. Much more welcoming face than mine, I assure you. No need to keep her from work."

Anne Connolly, Maeve's mother, was a dark and wispy haired woman with black eyes and red cheeks. She was tall, a trait that Maeve had not inherited, and she almost loomed down at Mr. Murphy down her red nose. She was intimidating when she wanted to be and she used it to her advantage now.

"You will not tell me how to parent my children, oh no, not at all. If I do not want Maeve to work-!"

"I'm a grown woman!" Maeve said desperately, shocked by the turn in emotion her mother had experienced. From worried to angry in less than a snap. Maeve's brother stood next to her, standing with his hands clasped with his hat behind his back at the front of the store. Maeve looked to him for help, but the boy's face and ears grew red and he looked away.

Maeve turned back to her mother. "You can't tell me what I can and cannot do! That's not fair!

Her mother shook her head and dragged her hands through the air in a swiping motion. "No, no. We'll go home. Oh, just you wait for your father to get a word on you!" She hurried out the door, past Hugh who jumped slightly to the side.

Maeve turned to Mr. Murphy. "I'll fix this, I'm sorry sir!"

Mr. Murphy leaned around Maeve to look at her mother. "God bless you in that endeavor," he muttered.

Maeve grabbed Hugh and the two followed their anxious and angry mother down through the streets of Dublin. She almost wished she was back with Ernest, drinking coffee and tea and laughing about books and wondering how everything had fallen into place.

She does not go back to work at the book shop.

][][][

He waits outside the bookshop that night. But Maeve is not in the window of the shop and the man closes up by himself.

Merlin leaves in a hurry and tries to avoid the stares.

It was another three months when Merlin sees Maeve again. He's back in Dublin unexpectedly, under a different name. Their eyes meet from across the street. It's a long moment.

The bell rings.

She says his name, well, the name he'd given her. Ernest Stafford, a young English socialite from Southern England that had been in Dublin only three months ago looking for a book. She does not say "Merlin." She doesn't know him like that.

He know she says the other name. But he does not hear it. The bells are ringing. The streets pause and neither of them move.

It's the 28th of June, 1914 and these are the bells of war.

He almost wants to move toward her, but he is no longer Ernest Stafford. He wasn't even Ernest Stafford when he'd met her. That identity had been shed. But a new one had not yet been crafted. He's only run into someone once before that he'd known under a different name. But Maeve, the Irish Girl from Cork and then Dublin and who ran around the whole town with him in the pouring rain, knows him so different from who he is now.

She begins to work her way across the square. Merlin finds he wants to stay, but he can't now, he can't be Ernest again. So he pulls himself away. The bells only last a minute and the sound snaps back in. Except it is silent now. Everyone is staring at each other. Darkness is falling as the moon rises.

And Merlin turns away.

When Merlin finds himself in Dublin again two years later, he almost looks for her. He's standing with an acquaintance across the street when he sees her. She doesn't notice him.

His friend is still talking, but Merlin is not listening.

She's handing out flyers in a green uniformed dress. "No Conscription for Ireland!" she cries, "Let English men fight English wars!"

Most people seem to ignore her, but some stop and grab a flyer. Others are brash and bump into her.

"No Conscription for Ireland!" she yells again.

"Are you listening to me, Will?" Merlin's friend asks. He looks and follows Merlin's gaze and tuts. "Pretty lass, she is."

Merlin hums his agreement.

"Shame her politics," the friend goes on and his voice fades.

Merlin is not sure he agrees. But they continue walking. He makes her voice fade too.

He returns one last time. He's not sure why. It was one night. Only a few hours at best. And yet, he'd enjoyed the time they had. Not the running, really, but the conversation and the company. Another friend, another good friend, had just passed and Merlin had escaped and ran and thrown himself in to finding a book and ignoring his feelings. And so he'd run to Dublin. He did like it here, the magic was flush. And he'd run into Maeve and made a friend for a day.

He returns to Dublin and enters in the small bookshop.

"Hello! How to do, how can I help 'ye today?" the man at the front says.

Merlin smiles. "Hello, I'm doing well. And you?"

Suspicion settles on the man's face when he hears Merlin's accent. It's painfully English. But Merlin pushes forward.

"I'm looking for Maeve. I believe she worked here, have you seen her recently?"

The man lowers his stack of books and rubs his eyes. "Sorry, lad, you've missed her by two years."

Merlin blinks and his heart drops. "Oh. Oh I see. Do you know where perhaps I can find her?"

If the bookshop owner looked sad before he looked sorrowful now. He looked Merlin up and down. "She stopped working here two years the Lass went missing some four months ago. I'm sorry."

"Missing," Merlin repeated, stomach filling with dread. "I see. Yes. Thank you, sir."

Merlin walks away from the store in a hurry. When he leaves Dublin some few weeks, he does not find anything about Maeve. He searches desperately. But the girl is gone. The war is going on though and Merlin can't stay forever. He has to return to the front.

He does.

But he does not forget about Maeve.

Fin.

Notes:

[April 2nd, 1914] Cumann na mBan, a womens paramilitary republican group meets at Wynn's Hotel in Dublin City, Co. Dublin.

[June 28th, 1914] The day the news of War hits Great Britain, which Ireland is still a part of.

[1916] Cumann na mBan becomes an auxiliary of the Irish Volunteers.

[April 24th, 1916] The day of the Easter Uprising in Dublin. It lasted six days before British Forces finally overwhelmed the rebels. During this time, an Irish Free State was declared. After the rebellion, the British executed a large number of the leaders. In reaction, support for Home Rule grew even more than it did before.

Maeve was a fun character to create and this is the first in the "Through the Years" stories that Merlin is not the initial and primary narrator. But I wanted to explore the dynamics between them through her. Let me know your theories on Maeve and what happened to her! I'm quite curious!

Slan!