Today, I learned that Alaric Slatherty can be unexpectedly kind. I have also learned that he can travel at the speed of light. I don't catch up with him even though I wasn't that far behind him, and when I step into the kitchen, I am startled to find it completely empty.

Not a soul, not a cricket, not a sound; only wonderful aromas greet me inside. How is this possible? I didn't imagine it! When I walked through here with Alaric only a few minutes ago, I counted at least eight people bustling around, some cooking and some carrying cleaning equipment. 

They greeted us... or at least, they greeted him.

Granted, it wasn't in a language I understood verbally, but I understood the gestures very well. Perhaps I fell asleep at my desk and dreamed all of it; after all, why would Alaric offer me what seems to be his private vehicle to use as much as I like? I might, right now, be drooling on my keyboard, about to cause an electrical short strong enough to burn down the place. That would be a tragedy.

I still have the keys in my hand, though, so I'm either still dreaming or...

Crossing to the large work island in the middle of the kitchen, I carefully open one of the cabinets, fully prepared to see someone curled up, lurking inside, stored away for later use. I smack my head against the edge of the cupboard and almost fall head-first among the pots and pans in there when Leopold speaks behind me.

Rising, I rub my forehead, certain I'm going to have a lump there this time. Believe it or not, I am not in the habit of head-butting furniture... Oh, who am I kidding? I should be issued with some form of head protection gear when performing general tasks such as living.

"Pardon me, Miss, I did not mean to startle you."

"No, no, you didn't," I hurry to assure him. "I was simply getting acquainted with the pots." 

Oh, marvellous; that did not sound stupid at all!

"I wanted to inform you that your lunch is served in your drawing room, Miss." If Leopold is amused by my lack of ability to function as a normal human being, he doesn't show it. He is as emotionless and proper as ever.

"Oh, that is lovely! Thank you, Leopold." At the mention of the word 'lunch', my stomach did a happy dance, and I realised that it had been a few hours since breakfast. I seldom eat much for lunch. I am going to gain so much weight living here in this palace of culinary decadence!

"Where do the Slatherties have their lunch? The dining room?"

"No, Miss, they have it in their quarters or wherever they please. We only use the dining room for dinner parties, which happen once a year, if at all. I could have your lunch served there if you prefer."

"Oh! No, thank you. The drawing room is perfect. I'll go there now."

"Very well, Miss."

I must say, I am rather disappointed when Leopold bows tightly, turns around, and strides out of the kitchen into the body of the house and doesn't crawl into one of the cabinets to be stored with the other staff members. Regardless, I give up on my craziness for now and don't search for servants in the refrigerator; I simply follow him from the kitchen, not surprised to discover that he, too, travels at the speed of light.

"I need to learn that trick."

I'll admit that he could've stepped into any of the rooms on the ground floor or turned left and followed the corridor behind the staircase to places unknown, but I rather like the idea of fast travel. Lately, I've become extremely partial to fanciful thoughts. 

The people I saw in the kitchen could be anywhere in the mansion, serving the inhabitants of Slaughtaverty Manor their lunch or cleaning some of the millions of rooms and corridors in this four-storey building. I'm rather disappointed with all the logical explanations I'm bombarded with; I liked my cupboard storage idea so much more.

I climb the staircase to the first-floor landing and turn left, and when I reach the first junction with multiple identical hallways branching in different directions, I realise that my phone is still on my desk in the office. I've taken pictures of the maps to make navigating the hallways easier, and my phone also comes with a torch to light the darker corners that seem alive with moving shadows, freaking me out.

Well, I've probably walked the route to my wing enough times now to find my way, so I decide not to turn back and run up to the office to fetch my phone but to forge on instead. By my third turn, I realise that I made a mistake at one of the junctions, and I turn back, but I'm in an unfamiliar hallway and from this direction, I cannot recognize the branch I should return to. I try the most likely option, just to find myself in increasingly less-known territory.

"Oh, great, I'm lost again."

Since I spoke to myself, I half expect Ransford (the last person on Earth I want to see today) to appear behind me and say something sarcastic, flirty or ridiculous, but the hallway remains empty, and now I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed. I'm about to shout out for help to see if Leopold will appear when my eye catches movement at the other end of the hallway, and I hastily turn to glimpse the edge of a long, white, lacy gown disappearing around a bend.

Saoirse?

I hurry to follow her, though I am not sure if she would be able to help me. If I followed her, she might lead me to someone who could help... at least, I hope so. I am happy to report that she, apparently, moves at normal speed because she didn't disappear once she turned the corner. When I reach the end of the hallway where I'd seen her and turn in the direction she went, she is at the other end of the new hallway, about to turn another corner.

She is just a shadowy figure dressed in white, moving around in a dusky hallway, and a part of my brain - probably the same part that had me looking for servants in cupboards - tells me that I should probably not hurry after her like this, but run in the other direction instead. Whimsical females wearing long lacy dresses hanging out in dark corridors don't usually mean 'help is near'.

Still, I speed up, trying to catch up to her, and then I see her pass under a burning lamp, and my feet decide to take control of my body by refusing to move. Blinking, trying to get my eyes to focus properly in the gloom, I stare at the girl reaching the corner, uncertainty wrapping its claws around my heart.

That is not Saoirse!

Saoirse Slatherty has long, ash-brown hair; this woman's hair is as radiant as a sunrise. A servant, perhaps... wearing a pretty lace dress... Doesn't seem likely. Just how many people whose existence I'm unaware of live in this mansion? Even more curious than startled, I speed up, running along the corridor to catch up to her.

"Miss! Excuse me, Miss!"

She doesn't seem to hear me. No reaction indicates she is even conscious of me running after her. She doesn't stop, and when I turn the corner, I am just in time to see her disappear into a dark alcove containing a spiral staircase.

No, thank you! I'm not going up there!

I hurry down the corridor and into the alcove to look up the stairs, hoping that I could still see her and that if I called her, she would come back.

The stairwell is too dark for me to see much further than the first couple of stone steps winding up into the black, and admitting defeat, I retreat, trying to trace my steps to where I was when I saw the woman the first time. The problem with being lost is that trying to retrace your steps in unknown territory just causes you to become even more lost. I could do with more light. Instead of my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, it feels as if the darkness is closing in on me, and dread is starting to crawl along my spine and swim around in my stomach like a spiky worm.

Eventually, I acknowledge that it is hopeless; I will have to call out for help and suffer the humiliation of Leopold's discontent. I did not mean to forget my phone with the map in the office. 

Drawing a long, deep breath to scream, my eyes alight on the rows of beautiful portraits adorning the subtly lit walls bordering the hallway I'm in. Each painting is set into its own shallow niche at intervals in the wood panelling. I slowly let the pent-up air escape my lungs and step closer to the paintings that caught my attention and startled me out of screaming.

The nearest portrait has a small copper label set in the bottom of its heavy frame, Fiachra Slatherty - 1589.

Fiachra Slatherty - 1589

For a second, I'd thought it was Ransford... or Alaric with bleached hair. It is the portrait of a strikingly beautiful fair-haired man, disturbingly reminding me of both of them. However, this stunning painting did not make me freeze in my steps. It is the one in the niche beside it, with light and shadow playing over the painted surface in such a way that the image seems to be moving.

It's also a portrait of a man; this one has long dark hair and is undoubtedly the man I dreamed about last night. If I just dreamed that (which is the only logical explanation), then I dreamed of someone who truly existed! At least, he did in 1716, according to the copper plate set in its frame, and his name was Deaglan.

Deaglan Slatherty - 1716 

I stare up at the unsettlingly handsome face, my brain pickled in confusion as I try and try again to find some logic in the situation. Why would I dream of a man who existed in the 1700s... and even worse, why would I dream of him levitating above me as if he were standing in front of me, gazing into my eyes? The details in my dream were startlingly accurate.

With the dream suddenly too present and clear before my eyes, I can feel anxiety settling in my lungs, causing my breath to escape in short, frightened huffs and retreating from the portrait; I turn around to find myself face to face with another confusing surprise. This time, it is a painting of a young man in his late teens. He has a frank way of looking at me from the frame that sets my nerve endings on fire, and there is something slightly cheeky and familiar about his attitude. The surprise, however, is in the name I read on the small metal tag set in the frame. Ransford Slatherty – 1748.

Ransford Slatherty – 1748

"Ransford?!" I breathe, knowing it couldn't possibly be the one I know despite the eyes being so alike.

"Yes, Aubrey?"

Gasping, I spin around, startled by the voice behind me, stepping off the heel of my sandal and losing my balance. I would've crashed to the floor or twisted my ankle if Ransford hadn't wrapped an arm around me, pulling me into his chest in an embrace that sent all the blood cascading from my brain to pool in my stomach. The face I look up into is that of a man in his late twenties, but the similarity to the boy in the painting is unmistakable.

"Is... is that you?" I mutter, wresting myself free of his grasp and retreating so fast I nearly fall again since I'm feeling rather dizzy right now.

"What?"

"This portrait..."

Ransford frowns, and then his eyes lift away from my face to look at the painting behind me, and he smirks. "Yes, I'm almost 300 years old. By golly! I'm even more spry than Leopold!"

I don't know what to say to that. His smile is filled with amusement, but his eyes are every bit as cold as Alaric's always are. I merely blink at him, struggling to find my breath after being startled by his sudden appearance and even more sudden embrace, chafing at my already frayed nerves.

"What can I say?" he asks, casually crossing his arms, leaning a hip against one of the half-moon tables set against the wall in the sections between the portraits. "We Slatherties do love our bloody portraits and our family names. If you walk these hallways, you'll find the same names over and over. There are many Ransfords and Alarics... Hell knows why. Ransford is a terrible name."

Seeing him shrug in that self-deprecating, mocking way he always has brings some normalcy flooding back into my veins; it comforts me, lulling my racing blood into calm, and I laugh softly.

"Of course! I'm sorry. It's just..." I glance past his shoulder to see the passionate, dark-haired man on the wall behind him. "I saw that man alive and well in this mansion... and he might be even older than you are... if you were a teenager in 1748."

Frowning, Ransford turns to look at the painting, and when he returns his attention to me, his features are twisted in a grimace. "That's not Alaric."

"I know. It wasn't Alaric I saw; it was that man... Exactly him. I thought I must've dreamed it, but..." I wave my hand at the painting again, indicating that it is there, not alive, but still well.

"You dreamed of great, great, great, great, greeeeeeeeeeeeeeat grandfather Deaglan Slatherty?"

"Apparently," I say, trying to smile, but my lips are too nervous to obey. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, what was he doing in your dream?" Ransford asks, seemingly wanting an honest answer, but then he grins, and I know I'm going to want to plug my ears and run off screaming. "Maybe you're having fantasies about Alaric; they do look a lot alike, you know?."

I was right!

"No!" I splutter, horrified, blushing every shade of red in existence. "I assure you I do not fantasize about your brother... at all... ever!" I don't! I really, really don't! I might, on occasion, have noticed how soft his lips look, and his eyes might cause me to want to set myself on fire to get rid of all the visions they conjure in my mind, but I do not fantasize about the man!

"Good," Ransford grins. "I'd rather you fantasized about me."

"What?! I don't..." Too flustered to continue this ridiculous conversation, I twirl around with a desperate groan and walk away, having no idea where I'm going. "I probably saw that painting or one like it, and that is why he appeared in my dream," I tell Ransford when he joins me. "He wasn't doing anything in my dream; he was just... looking at me... the way that painting was just looking at me."

"Sounds like a boring dream," Ransford scoffs, stepping in front of me, and when I unavoidably walk into him, he turns me around with his hands on my shoulders. "It's that way," he says, indicating the direction I should be walking, and I hurry to step out of his grasp. Really?! He couldn't just say it? He had to turn it into an erotic dance flavoured with aromas, making my entire body flutter as if a swarm of butterflies were set free in my veins?!

How does he smell so good?!

"When you dream of me, I hope it will be much more exciting," he says matter-of-factly, falling in step beside me. "Honestly, Aubrey, don't waste your time fantasizing and dreaming about uninteresting people with no imagination. I am right here!"

"Oh, do be quiet!" I huff, stomping away from him, walking faster when I hear him chuckle. When I come to a cross junction, I hesitate - unwilling to ask him for help - before I turn to my left. He again redirects my steps, this time by flinging an arm around my shoulders rather intimately and guiding me straight down the same corridor. Walking along the neverending stretch of carpet, it feels as though dozens of eyes follow me through different historical periods from the portraits in the niches.

Ransford is right; the Slatherties do enjoy having their portraits painted. I'm rather glad because, glancing at them, they tell a story of progressing time as the painting styles and the clothing worn in them gradually change.

"So, I take it you're lost?" he chuckles.

"No! What gave it away?!" I scoff cheekily, too annoyed to care that he is one of my employers.

"Well, I could be wrong," he laughs softly. "You might just be snooping because you're curious about me..."

"I'm lost!" I assure him, making him laugh harder. "I forgot my phone in the office, and my maps are on it. My lunch must be completely cold by now," I sigh, suddenly miserable. "I shouldn't have tried to reach the woman for help; I should've just screamed."

"The woman?" Ransford's voice has lost all its mirth, and his expression is rather grim when I look at him. "Saoirse?"

"No. I didn't see her clearly; she was too far ahead. These corridors have terrible lighting, and I never caught up with her, but I don't think it was your sister. This woman had the most beautiful red hair," I tell him. "A bit like him," I say, pointing at a portrait at the end of the hallway, backing the T-junction we're heading towards.

I slow down until I reach the deeper niche facing our corridor. It is framed with beautiful leafy wood carvings and has candle holders protruding from the wall, each holding a burning candle. I gaze up at the portrait of a handsome man with blue eyes and vibrant red hair glowing in the candlelight, the flickering flames causing his features to seem alive. I almost expect him to say something cheeky.

"You... you saw him?" Ransford asks, and if I didn't know any better, I would've thought he was upset.

"If he wears white lacy dresses and has hair down to his bottom, then yes, I saw him," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Well, Ambrose always loved to make fashion statements," Ransford grins, gazing at the painting almost affectionately. I follow his gaze, and studying the face of the man, I can clearly see a family resemblance there.

It seems unfair that there were so many beautiful members in one family. It is possible that the artists were just being generous and that many of them had bad teeth, pock-marked skin and lice-ridden heads. I slide my eyes over the copper label inserted in the frame and feel my throat tighten with inexplicable sadness.

Ambrose Slatherty 12 June 1786 - 15 November 2018 

I wouldn't be surprised to find many more shrines like this one set in strategic places that meant something to the person who created it in memory of the one they loved. Tracing the outline of a deer's head, my fingertips accidentally brush against what I thought were fake flowers lying at the base of the niche beneath the bottom edge of the painting, and I am surprised to realise that they are genuine, fresh white lilies, not ones made of silk.

Is lighting candles and placing flowers in the shrines a task the servants take care of, or did one of the Slatherties place these flowers? It seems like a rather sentimental thing to do unless it is based on some superstitions. I'm about to ask Ransford about it when realisation suddenly dawns on me, and I frown at the dates, reaching out to brush my fingertips over the plaque to see if there might be some dirt build-up or damage distorting the dates.

I didn't notice it at first, as the painting is in the same style and appears as old as all the other paintings I saw while walking down the hallway.

"Ransford, this man couldn't have been 232 years old when he passed away!" I point out, indicating the metal plaque. "Surely, one of these dates must be wrong."

"Oh, yes!" Ransford exclaims, running his fingers over the dates. "That seven was once a nine," he says, taking a step back from the painting and, turning to look at me, he shrugs, grinning again. "This stuff doesn't get cleaned very often."

"Then he was only 32 years old when he passed away," I observe, saddened by the death of someone so vibrantly healthy-looking. He didn't pass away all that long ago, either. "He was so young still."

"Yes," Ransford agrees, and the change in his voice makes me uneasy. There is no trace of laughter or playfulness left. He sounds sombre and reserved... sad. This must be the brother Billy told me about! I wish I hadn't said anything. The loss must still be quite raw.

"Were you very close?" I ask, feeling awkward now.

"Yes," he breathes. "I loved the bastard."

"I'm so sorry you lost him," I whisper, placing a hand on his forearm, and he slides his eyes away from the painting to smile at me. For once, his smile is not flirty or teasing; it is warm and has a touch of sadness. 

"Thank you."

"He looks about a decade younger in the portrait," I mutter. "Was it painted long ago?" The artist did an excellent job of making it appear quite ancient. I would love to inspect it closer to see if I can figure out what kind of ageing techniques were used.

"We Slatherties age really well," he tells me, and I realise that he is ready to be a pest again. "I'm over 290 years old, after all."

"Oh! Of course! I forgot! Yes, you're ageing extremely well."

"Thank you."

This man!

I tilt my head to look at him; now it is my turn to smirk. "So, at what age do your people start to mature?"

Ransford laughs heartily and gently takes my elbow, leading me along the right arm of the junction. "Maturing is highly over-rated, my dear," he mutters.

"The lady's hair was a bit lighter," I tell him, remembering the original topic of our conversation. "I only saw her from behind. She was wearing a beautiful long white dress. From the distance, it appeared to be made of lace."

"Oh, I see," Ransford sighs and glancing at him, I find his face stark and unreadable, the muscles in his jaw bunching as if clenching his teeth. There doesn't seem to be any more information coming from him, and I don't want to pry, especially since it doesn't appear to be a topic he is comfortable with. Seeing him even slightly uncomfortable is surreal.

"Here we are," he announces after many silent twists and turns, stopping at the hallway entrance, which, though we've arrived from a very different angle, I immediately recognize as mine. I know the huge, beautifully carved, rearing granite horses flanking the entrance like guards. They are rather stunning, and I haven't seen any other hallways with anything like them. What I don't recognize are the garlands draped around the necks of the passionate horses. Those are new... and fresh.

"What is this?" I ask Ransford, lifting a section of one garland with my fingertips, and he pulls a face, shrugging.

"Herbs mostly. Hawthorn, Lavender, Mint. Citronella Grass, Tarragon, Lemon Balm... things like that."

"To keep mosquitoes away?" I recognise some of those as ingredients in many mosquito repellents. That is awesome; the bite I had in the crook of my arm is gone now; I do not need another one.

Ransford jerks his head around to look at me, a grin spreading on his face. "Yes, something like that," he chuckles.

"It smells wonderful," I sigh, drawing my lungs full of the mixture of fragrances. I hope there are more of these garlands around, as mosquitoes don't stick to normal routes.

"Hmmm," he says, but his face doesn't agree, and he seems to be in a bit of a hurry now. "Enjoy your lunch, Aubrey. Just shout when you get lost again; I'll find you."

I watch him turn a corner, suddenly sad that I'll have lunch alone today. I wonder where Diarmuid has his lunch; I should've invited him to join me. It would be wonderful to speak to a fellow employee and learn more about the Slatherties and their mansion. It is too late to go looking for him now. 

It is probably a good thing that Ransford did not stick around. Lunch with him would definitely not be as relaxing as lunch with Billy had been. I would probably have gotten so nervous and agitated by the nonsense the man kept spitting out that I would've ended up wearing my food.

Billy...

I wish I had my phone with me. Last night, he sent me a message, as I requested, to let me know that he made it home safely, and when I replied, thanking him again for a lovely day, he called me, and we had a short chat during which we arranged for him to pick me up on Friday for lunch and a visit to the library.

I have a car now. It is no longer necessary for Billy to pick me up. I wonder if he will still want to go to lunch if I can get to the library myself. I was going to call him to tell him about the truck, but now I wonder if I wouldn't be shooting myself in the foot if I did.

I rather liked travelling with Billy.

Opening the door to my drawing room, I come to a startled stop when I see Diarmuid seated at the table, eating his lunch. He jumps to his feet when he sees me hesitating at the door, wondering if I entered the wrong room.

"I'm sorry. I hope ye don't mind," he says, looking awkward. "I was going to ask if I could join ye, but I didn't see ye again. I could leave..."

"No!" I assure him, hurrying over to the table and sitting on the chair across from his, where another place setting with a covered plate waits for me. "I'm so pleased that you're here. I was going to ask if you would mind joining me for lunch, but... I got lost..."

"To be sure, to be sure, that does happen quite easily," he grins, taking his seat.

We enjoy our scrumptious Caesar Salads and freshly prepared fruit juices, chatting about life in Slaughtaverty Manor. Just as expected, Diarmuid is a mine of useful information and tips.

According to him, the cleaning, gardening and kitchen staff mainly consists of descendants of former Pavees living in a small village on the other side of the graveyard. They seldom mingle with the folks from Slaughtaverty and are deeply entrenched in their own customs and superstitions. They're not the friendliest people he has ever encountered and keep to themselves, but they're good people who only long to be left in peace. 

"If ye respect them, they will respect ye in turn," he tells me. "If ye cross them, they might kill ye," he adds, chortling happily, and I don't know whether he is being serious or not.

"Leopold told me that the Slatherties prefer using horses for transport and offered to chauffeur me around in a long limo, but Alaric just gave me the keys to a small truck."

"Aye, the family do all have a thing for horses, but they use the four-by-four on rainy days when they absolutely have to visit one of the projects or when the sun is too hot for them to be outside. It makes sense for Alaric to give ye keys; ye'll have much more use for it than he does. He can be surprisingly generous, to be sure, to be sure."

'Surprisingly' is the operative word here.

"The sun gets hot on this island?" I struggle to believe that.

"No, not really, but they all have a... condition that makes them very sensitive to sunlight, especially when it is concentrated, hot or prolonged."

"Oh!" That explains their lack of a tan, though Liam seems to get a bit more sun than his brothers and Saoirse. Perhaps they have the avoidance of the sun to thank for their absolutely flawless skin. 

"Aside from the employees and the four Slatherties I've met, how many other people are there in this mansion, Diarmuid?"

"Alive?" he asks, puzzling me, and once again, I have no idea whether I should take this man seriously or not. He is constantly saying the strangest things with a completely straight face.

"Well... yes... is there another kind?"

"The place is awfully haunted, so who knows?" he chuckles, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that we're spending our days in a haunted mansion. Diarmuid, somehow, does not strike me as someone who would believe in ridiculous things like ghosts. I'm starting to find this entire conversation bizarre... and I thought I'd asked a simple question.

Oh, lovely, I am now so glad I asked. I'm apparently not going to get any straight answers from this man; I might as well risk asking the question that really bothers me and see what fantastic answer he has lined up for that.

"Diarmuid, what is the real reason I was supposed to be a man?"

Surprised by my question, he lowers his fork to blink at me, all teasing and humour leaving his face, his eyes struggling to stay fixed on mine. He looks utterly uncomfortable now.

"Aubrey, rumours and superstitions are the lifeblood of this mansion, this island, and the village," he finally assures me, not answering my question at all. I really hope he is going to say more because that told me absolutely nothing. He must see the disgruntled look on my face because he gives a nervous little laugh similar to the one I found so endearing this morning when he blurted out that sharing an office with Alaric would drive him insane. Unless some enlightening information will follow that laugh, it is a little less adorable now.

"Sure, look," he says, picking up and draining his glass. "Picture a certain endangered species of male animals that are highly allergic to females of a specific blood type and genetic make-up, and they have to avoid those females at all costs."

Oh, splendid! Just what I needed. More weird garbage.

"The only way they can tell if a female belongs to that classification is by smellin' them or havin' genetic tests done on their blood." He pauses, looking at me as if he's trying to assess if I'm taking in the highly important details of his lecture.

I'm not... it's rubbish. 

"As you might be able to imagine, it would be a massive risk to introduce random females into their lives without testin' them thoroughly, and the endangered species cannot go out into the world and be sniffin' all females to know who should be avoided because, by the time they've been exposed to the wrong one, it's already more or less game over for them."

He finishes his story and sits quietly, studying my face, and I expect him to burst into laughter at any second, but he seems to be quite happy with the explanation he just gave me.

"What?!" I finally snap, frowning at him, wondering about that juice he drank. Mine was orange juice, but his was purple and looked a little strange. "The Slatherties are allergic to females of a certain blood type and gene pool?"

"Uhm... n-naw...," he says, "but... if ye think of it like that, it makes perfect sense."

No, it really doesn't!

"No, Diarmuid, thinking about it like that makes my head hurt," I huff, a little irritated now.

"Don't worry, lass," he smiles, wiping his mouth on his napkin and carefully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Since they're lettin' ye stay, ye clearly passed the sniff test."

I'm about to tell Diarmuid to sniff my fist, but then I remember being sniffed rather thoroughly...  but it wasn't by any of the Slatherty men, it was by a girl with black eyes and... something else... I try to wrap my mind around the memory, but it bursts apart like a soap bubble, leaving a slimy ring on the surface of my brain.

 "Yes, I can see that writing the job advertisement with a female exclusion clause involving sniff or genetic tests would be very difficult if you go along with that analogy."

"Exactly!" Diarmuid exclaims, overjoyed at my comprehension of the predicament, my sarcasm completely lost on him. I am unsure whether I like Diarmuid and his socially awkward quirks or find him highly annoying. Right now, though, I would love to smack him just once and shout at him to talk sense.

"I'm so glad they're not allergic to me," I mumble irritably, spearing a piece of chicken, lettuce, tomato and a crouton and dragging it all through the spectacular creamy salad dressing.

"To be sure, to be sure," Diarmuid smiles happily and picks up his fork again. "Or they are, and it is too late to do anythin' about that now they've been exposed to ye except to ride the storm," he shrugs.

~~~