"Maeve–" he began.
	"Da, I know what you're about to say, but the summer is almost done.  There isn't any point in tellin' me to stop now."
	"I know, I know," he sighed, running a hand through his graying hair.  "I just worry about you.  All of this under the table business aside, you're barely home.  Going to Trinity isn't worth it if you destroy yourself in the process."
	Through a mouthful of bread, Maeve said, "It will be, trust me."
	He passed her a napkin.  "I don't pretend to understand these things as well as your mother, but there are plenty of advanced studies to complete for jobs in the magic world."
	The magic world.  It was what he had called it for as long as Maeve could remember.  Sometimes it burned her that he could never experience what she did, never understand what it meant to use magic.  But Liam Byrne had fallen in love with a woman that could, and that was enough for him.
	"There is no higher education.  Those studies are only for Aurors and people who want to work at St. Mungos.  I don't want a job in the Ministry, and I don't think I want to be a doctor."  Maeve stood up and rinsed off her plate in the sink.  "And Declan said he'd hire me for real next summer as a waitress if I finish out this one.  If I keep at it, I'll be able to pay for tuition on my own."
	He let the subject drop, but Maeve knew there was more he wanted to say to her.  The opportunities were better, less of a risk in the magic world.  She was too bright to waste away her teenage years in Declan's armpit of a pub.  But she knew the price was worth her well-calculated reward.  It had to be.
	"Where's Sorcha?" Maeve dared to ask, leaning against the counter.
	"Out with your Ma," he answered, raising a brow.  "You two aren't at each other's throats again are you?  If I have to break up another argument in Diagon Alley tomorrow I might just keep you home."
	"We aren't,"  Maeve lied with a smile.
	"Then what was all that shouting about Sorcha's socks in knots this morning?"
	Maeve clamped her mouth shut.  She was particularly proud of that one, an Immobilus spell modified to keep Sorcha's socks folded in tight balls no matter how hard she tried to pry them apart.  Sorcha was no better; Maeve had to stack two chairs on top of each other to get her sneakers off the ceiling before her shift at the pub.
	When Maeve said nothing, her dad shook his head.  "No magic in the house.  That's the rule.  I know you can get away with it because of your Ma, but I don't want any more of it until you're of age.  Understood?"
	"Yes," Maeve muttered.  
	With any luck, Maeve wouldn't even have to see Sorcha until they left for town tomorrow.  Instead of going up to her room, she went through the back door and into the garden.  It smelled of basil and woodsmoke.  The temperature had already dropped enough that Maeve was cold in her pants and t-shirt.  She breathed deeply, letting the wind ruffle her hair.  Hair that definitely stunk of chip pan oil.
	A new rustling sound caught her attention, and Maeve's attention snapped to the fence row that separated their backyard from the fields beyond.  In the distance, the hulking figures of the Wicklow mountains were just barely visible.
	"Sorcha?"  Maeve dared to ask.  She wouldn't put it past her twin sister to sneak around the back of the house just to mess with her.  But it wasn't Sorcha.  The source of the noise was a barn owl.  It's dark eyes reflected the light coming from the house.
	"Oat," Maeve sighed.  "Do you have something for me?"
	Oat extended his wings with a flourish, gesturing to the letter that he had gently left for her on the top of the hedge.  She could already make out the handwriting on it.  Elara Harvey.