Finnegan O'Gold's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The room was full, but Finnegan saw the problem before it started. The warmth pulled people in, yet he had only bottles behind him. A wanderer near the door sniffed the sweet air, then rubbed his stomach. Two others whispered about the pub down the way, McOlean's, where they served hot plates. Finnegan knew the smell of his own honey would not fill a belly. Hungry people do not stay. They drift toward food. Dylan Mercer sat at the bar, guitar case at his feet. Beside him perched an owl in a flannel shirt, a guitar across his knees. Finnegan had served the owl once, weeks back, and remembered the face like he remembered them all. Hoot Hendrix. The two musicians looked at the door as the first wanderer stood to leave. "They're going," Finnegan said. "I've got drink and nothing else." Hoot watched the man reach the door. "Then feed them," he said. He did not look away from the departing wanderer. "With what? I've no kitchen worth the name." Dylan spoke without turning. "You're a leprechaun. Make something." The words caught Finnegan mid-breath. He had spent fifteen years burying the old life. The rules, the tricks, the small magics he swore he would never use again. But a habit clings. His hands remembered before his mind agreed. He crouched behind the bar and pulled out a box he had not opened in years. Dark wood, green clover inlay, gold knots along the lid. It glowed faintly when he lifted it. Inside lay nothing but a folded cloth and the memory of what his kind could do. He set the box on the bar and opened both hands over it. "This is stupid," Dylan said, but he leaned in. Finnegan spoke the old words low, the way his grandmother taught him. The box warmed under his palms. Steam curled from inside it. When he drew back the cloth, a full plate sat there. Corned beef sliced thick, cabbage, carrots, small potatoes. The gravy sparkled faintly, catching the lamplight. The smell hit the room like a fist. The wanderer at the door stopped. He turned around. Hoot leaned over the plate and breathed in. "That's real," he said. Finnegan made another plate. Then another. He carried them out to the tables, and the wanderers sat back down. They ate. They ordered drink to go with the food. No one looked toward McOlean's now. The box kept its heat, ready for the next order. Dylan cut into his plate and chewed. "You should've done this years ago," he said flatly. Finnegan wiped his hands and watched the full room eat. He had used the old magic he swore off, and it worked. But the box grew warm too fast between plates. Each dish drained a little more from it. He did not know how many meals were left inside before the glow went dark.