The first time Gran warned Lorna about the woods, it was five days after Liam's funeral, and Lorna barely even heard her.
"Right, Gran," she said dutifully, staring at the smooth, bleached wood of a kitchen table far older than she was.
At twenty-eight, she'd only met her Gran a week ago, but the old lady treated her as though they'd known one another all their lives -- it was a refreshing change from Mairead,
who tiptoed around her, as though afraid she might shatter at any given moment. But then, she hadn't known her sister any longer than her granny.
"I mean it, allanah," Gran said, pointing a ladle at her. Though she was as small and wiry as her granddaughter, Lorna imagined she could do some fierce damage with it.
"Lord Thranduil lives in those woods, and he'll brook no trespassers."
"Who in bloody hell is Lord Thranduil?" This was Ireland, not flipping England. Mairead had assured her that Gran still had all her marbles, but now Lorna wondered.
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