Ciaran twisted around to see who had caused confusion in his father, who was endlessly polite, and he saw a shadow in the doorway. Or rather, a person, short, dressed in a long cloak, cowl obscuring features.
“Eoghan?” a woman asked.
“I am he. What can I do for you?”
The woman extended a fist, and Ciaran tensed, reaching for his father’s cutting shovel, but then the woman turned her hand over and revealed a fistful of coins, more money than most people saw in a lifetime.
“Peat, please.”
Eoghan reached for it, then stopped. “No. Not for your kind.”
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