Ciaran waited until Fionn the fisherman was distracted before he made a trade with Fionn’s grandmother, Fingula, who took pity on Ciaran, “the poor, motherless mite”. He glanced over his shoulder to where Brenna was minding her wares and wondered what she was doing at market. Didn’t druids spend their days dancing in the trees or something?
She had a sword by her side, as fine a weapon as any chieftain carried, but she seemed languid, amused by all she saw.
Aoife stopped to talk to her.
“What are you peddling, lass?”
“Bowls, for holding or seeing as you need.”
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