Chapter 23 The Tell
THE TELL
Robbie's pub was packed when Baird stepped through the door, the air thick with laughter and the comforting scent of peat smoke and spilled ale.
Bunny trotted straight toward her spot by the hearth as if she owned the place, nails clicking smartly against the worn flagstone floor.
The locals barely looked up—just a few knowing nods—but the tourists ooed and ahhed, hands outstretched as she passed.
Ever the polite lass, Bunny paused to accept a few pats as she went, her tail sweeping slow arcs of approval, before circling exactly twice and flopping down with a satisfied grunt in front of the fire.
Robbie was hunched behind the bar, mopping up a spill beside a tray stacked with frothing pints waiting to be whisked off to a table.
The tang of malt and bleach mingled in the air as he worked, sleeves rolled past his elbows.
“What brings ye in, Baird?” he asked, not looking up, his cloth sweeping one last clean pass over the bar top.
Baird sat with the question for a moment, rolling it around in his mind like a stone he couldn't quite push uphill—not because he was afraid of the answer, but because of where it might lead.
The last thing he wanted was to set Robbie off again with talk of witches and magic.
The man always turned his most curmudgeonly when those topics surfaced—his lingering disapproval of Mira still grated on Baird, truth be told—and Baird didn't want to hand him more ammunition.
He'd learned, the hard way, what happened when he let other people's fears shape the truths he chose to share.
He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, and tried to make his voice sound casual, as if this were nothing more than the easy banter shared between old friends.
“Ach, ye know,” Baird began, aiming for nonchalance.
“I was hoping ye could tell Sorcha I'd like a word with her—at her convenience, of course. But…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…maybe best Mira doesnae hear of it just yet.” He added, the words tasting like betrayal even as he told himself they were protection.
That earned him Robbie's full attention. The man straightened, scowl carving lines across his face as he tossed the rag onto the bar with a wet slap. He planted his boots wide, all five foot eight of him radiating the kind of stubborn defiance that usually ended in a row.
“And what am I now, Baird Campbell?” Robbie shot back. “Your messenger between the witches?”
Baird gave a guilty shrug before glancing around. “Lower your voice,” Baird muttered. “And Mira's no a witch.” Even as he said it, he wasn't sure if it was true, not knowing which side of the line Mira's powers drew from.
Robbie ignored him completely, his tone climbing an octave the way it always did when he was riled. “Oh, is she no?” he shot back. “And that thing ye do—rubbin’ the back o' your neck—that's your tell, ye ken. Ye think I cannae see when somethin's troublin’ ye?”
Baird stilled his hand at once, irritation flaring—not at Robbie but at himself for slipping.
He straddled the nearest barstool, and settled in, knowing Robbie wouldn't be satisfied until he'd heard it all.
“Mira's been engrossed in that Garvie grimoire since Granny Margaret gave it to her, and she's never been happier.
And I've been fully supportive of it,” he said—and mostly that was true.
“It's unlocked something in her, something big—powerful.”
Robbie cut in when Baird paused. “…And?”
Baird shot Robbie an angry glower that cut through the chatter around them.
“She had a dream the other night,” he said.
“Flew to the top of the mountain and met Brigid herself. And before she woke, she mumbled somethin’ about being the chosen one.
” He paused, catching Robbie's gaze—really catching it this time.
“But the voice that came from her, Robbie—it wasnae hers. It was someone else's, and that message about Mira being chosen was meant for me, I ken it—a warning.” He drew a shaky breath, the old habit taking over as his hand went to the back of his neck. When he caught himself, he slammed his palm flat on the bar in frustration, the sound cracking through the room, loud enough to turn heads. Two days’ worth of helpless dread spilled out with the motion, raw and unguarded.
Robbie's eyes widened, the scowl slipping from his face. For a long beat he just watched Baird, the bluster gone. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its bark. “Aye,” he said quietly.
“And if it was just that, I wouldnae be in this state,” Baird admitted with an exhale.
“When Agnes was ill,” he said, remembering a time he wanted desperately to forget.
“She used to say things about not being the chosen one—that someone was coming for her—sometimes it was ‘her,’ other times ‘him’—pronouns shifted but the certainty didnae. And she kept warning me—insisting—that the one who came after she was gone would be taken from me as well.” He let out a weary breath.
“I told her she was confused, that she didnae ken what she was saying. But she kept insisting she did—and that it was me who didnae ken.”
He stopped then, searching Robbie's face for some flicker of recognition. “But now Mira's saying the same things, only she believes she is the chosen one. And she's no afraid, Robbie.” Baird shook his head. “No one bit.” That, more than anything, was what frightened him.
Robbie leaned onto the bar, elbows braced, eyes locked on Baird's. The pub's din—the laughter, the clink of glasses, the music—seemed to fade to nothing. For a moment it was just the two of them, voices low, the air between them taut.
“And what is it ye think Sorcha can tell ye, exactly?” Robbie asked at last, his voice rough but steady.
“If that voice that came out of Mira in her sleep truly was the voice of the goddess Brigid, then what does it mean to be chosen?”
“I'll talk to Sorcha—and tell her to keep it between us for now.” Robbie said, placing an awkward hand on Baird's shoulder.
Baird nodded, relief and guilt arriving hand in hand.