Niamh is standing in the hall behind me.Notdressed for the office. She’s wearing jeans cuffed high over brown work boots, and a green T-shirt that clings to her shoulders and breasts. And . . . well . . .and. . .
She’s cut her hair.
And combed it back.
Like she did at school. When she was Brody. (She’s still Brody . . . ) (Has been all along, I suppose.)
Niamh cut her hair the way I suggested.
Which means . . .
Well, it means that she knows good advice when she hears it.
Good for her. Good for Niamh. With her whole . . . face situation. The nose and the, um . . . chin, like a hatchet. The everything like a hatchet. Sharp. And heavy. I think she blow-dried her hair. Good forher.That’s good. This whole . . .thingis good for her.
“I’m leaving,” she says. She looks angry—which never means anything useful with Niamh, but it’s honestly still a good look on her.
“You’re . . .” I already feel ten steps behind this conversation. “What?”
“Are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“To Watford? To check on the goats?”
“ToWatford,” I say, catching up. “To check on thegoats.”
Niamh frowns at me.
“Yes—Yes, I’m coming. I told you I wanted to help.”
Niamh frowns even harder. Like she’s really putting her back into it. “Well, I’m leaving now.”
“Then let’s go.”
My dad needed his Volvo today, so we’re back in Niamh’s stifling Ford Fiesta, with the windows down. We have to shout to be heard over the wind. Well, I’m shouting. Niamh largely ignores me. Are we back to this then, not talking?
We talked last night,plenty—until the pub closed.
Niamh told me about veterinary school. (She likes it.) And living in London. (She doesn’t.) About what she’s learned from my dad, and how she wants to start her own practice, and how she’s going to run for the Coven someday. Niamh has a lot of opinions about how things should be done. And what’s practical.
I have zero opinions like that.
But I liked listening to Niamh’s opinions and telling her when they sounded impossible. (Less often than one might expect.)
I laughed the whole night. At Niamh. And her straight-faced opinions and strange pronouncements. At the way she lets the whole world get under her skin. I never laugh that much.
Niamh never laughs at all, apparently, but I still think she had a good time. She kept sitting there with me, when she could have asked me to take her home. Morgana knows Niamh wouldn’t spend a minute in anyone’s company just to be polite.
We turn off the main road onto the sleepy little lane that leads to Watford, leaving the noise and traffic behind us.
“I was right about your hair,” I say, to break the silence. And also to punish Niamh for the silence, I suppose.
“It’s none of your business,” she replies.
“And yet, youdidget the haircut I suggested . . .”
“I’ve had this haircut before, Agatha.”
