And with that, finally, she seemed satisfied. She plunked down into her chair, exhaling, before turning to him and saying, “Go to your room. I don’t want to see you until morning.”
He glanced up, startled. “What did I?—?”
“To your room. You aren’t one of us. I’ll not have you eat with us. Now off with you.”
He pushed his chair back and slowly rose to his feet.
The Gnat stuck out her tongue when their grandmother wasn’t looking. “Can I have his egg?”
“Of course, dear,” Gran said as he shuffled from the kitchen.
Thenext morning, instead of going to school, his grandmother took him to church. It was not Sunday. It was not even Friday. As soon as he saw the spires of the cathedral, he began to shake. He’d done something wrong, horribly wrong. He’d lain awake half the night trying to figure out what he could have done to deserve bed without dinner, but there was nothing. She’d fedhim stew in an eggshell and, while perplexed, he had still been very polite and respectful about it.
The trouble had started with telling her about the dreams, but who could find fault with tales of castles and meadows, music and laughter?
Perhaps she was going senile. It had happened to an old man down the street. They’d found him in their yard, wearing a diaper and asking about his wife, who’d died years ago. If that had happened to his grandmother, Father Joseph would see it.
Certainly, he seemed to, given the expression on Father Joseph’s face after Gran talked to him alone in the priest’s office. Father Joseph emerged as if in a trance, and Gran had to direct him to the pew where Bobby waited.
“See?” she said, waving her hand at Bobby.
The priest looked straight at him, but seemed lost in his thoughts. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Sheehan.”
Gran’s voice snapped with impatience. “It’s obvious he’s not ours. Neither his mother nor his father nor any of his grandparents have blond hair. Or dark eyes.”
Sweat beaded on the priest’s forehead and he tugged his collar. “True, but children do not always resemble their parents, for a variety of reasons, none of them laying any blame at the foot of the child.”
“Are you suggesting my daughter-in-law was unfaithful?”
Father Joseph’s eyes widened. “No, of course not. But the ways of genetics—like the ways of God—are not always knowable. Your daughter-in-law does have light hair, and I believe she has a brother who is blond. If my recollection of science is correct, dark eyes are the dominant type, and I’m quite certain if you searched the family tree beyond parents and grandparents you would find your answer.”
“I have my answer,” she said, straightening. “He is a changeling.”
Two drops of sweat burst simultaneously and dribbled down the priest’s face. “I…I do not wish to question your beliefs, Mrs. Sheehan. I know such folk wisdom is common in the…more rural regions of your homeland?—”
“Because itiswisdom. Forgotten wisdom. I’ve tested him, Father. I gave him dinner in an eggshell, as I explained.”
“Yes, but…” The priest snuck a glance around, as if hoping for divine intervention—or a needy parishioner to stumble in, requiring his immediate attention. “I know that is the custom, but I cannot say I rightly understand it.”
“What is there to understand?” She put her hands on her narrow hips. “It’s a test. I gave him stew in eggshells, and he said he’d never seen anything like it. That’s what a changeling will say.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I believe that’s whatanyonewould say, if given their meal served in an egg.”
She glowered at him. “I put him in a tub with foxglove, too, and he became ill.”
“Foxglove?” The priest’s eyes rounded again. “Is that not a poison?”
“It is if you’re a changeling. I also gave him one of my heart pills, because it’s made from digitalis, which is also foxglove. My pill made him sick.”
“You gave…” For the first time since he’d come in, Father Joseph looked at Bobby, really looked at him. “You gave your grandson your heart medication? That couldkilla boy?—”
“He isn’t a boy. He’s one of the Fair Folk.” Gran met Bobby’s gaze. “An abomination.”
Now Father Joseph’s face flushed, his eyes snapping. “No, he is achild. You will not speak of him that way, certainly not in front of him. I’m trying to be respectful, Mrs. Sheehan. You are entitled to your superstitions and folksy tales, but not if they involve poisoning an innocent child.” He knelt in front of Bobby.“You’re going to come into my office now, son, and we’ll call your parents. Is your mother at work?”
He nodded.
“Do you know the number?”
