Maeve Amberdrop's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Maeve Amberdrop heard the pipe again on a Tuesday, when a stranger at her bar swore he'd never been to The Whistling Whiskey before. The tune rose thin and sweet under the noise, a jig no player in the room could make. The man's glass shook in his hand. Then he admitted he'd been barred here years ago. Maeve wiped the counter and said nothing. She knew the sound now. It came only when a stranger lied. She wanted to know why, and she wanted to know before she started doubting her own ears. She poured herself a shot of Jameson, neat, the way she did every night for her father. He'd handed her this pub with one order: don't let the bastards water it down. He never mentioned a ghost. Two failed rescues and a dozen buyout men later, Maeve had learned to trust facts. A ghost was not a fact. She needed a witness. But no one would sit a whole shift listening for a piper. Her cook laughed. Her regulars thought she'd finally cracked. The property group's latest man would love to hear the landlady chased spirits. So she sent for the one person who wouldn't laugh. Casandra Videncia came in near closing, her dark blue skirts sweeping the floor, gold stars glinting in her white hair. She was Maeve's oldest friend, a medium who claimed she'd heard spirits since she was a girl. Maeve had always half-believed her. Tonight she needed her to be right. "Sit," Maeve said. "Tell me if you hear it. Don't tell me what I want to hear." Casandra shuffled her tarot deck and settled at the bar. "I never do, querida." She tilted her head, listening to something Maeve couldn't see. Then she laughed softly at empty air. Maeve waved in a straggler, a traveler wanting one last drink. She asked his name and his road. He gave both smoothly. Too smoothly. Under the clink of glasses, the pipe began. Casandra went still. Her cards slid from her fingers. "You hear that," Maeve whispered. It wasn't a question. "I hear him," Casandra said. Her eyes filled. "A piper. Close as breath." She gripped Maeve's wrist. "He is not visiting you, Maeve. He is bound to you. He walks where you walk." The stranger's story unraveled as he talked, each lie thickening the tune. Then he left, and the pipe stopped. Maeve set down her father's whiskey untouched. The ghost was real. A stranger had confirmed it. But Casandra's words changed the shape of everything. "Bound to me," Maeve said. "You're certain." "Since before this pub was yours, I think." Casandra picked up her cards with shaking hands. "You wanted proof. Now you have a question that will not let you sleep." Maeve looked at the empty stool where the liar had sat. She no longer needed to know if the piper was real. She needed to know why he belonged to her.