Under Lough Owel

Purrport

Inspector Finn

A Three-Part Culinary Chronicle

The Brighton fairyfolk weren’t nosy--just naturally curious with finely tuned appetites. So when Tansy Bitterwhistle, newly arrived from under the pier, found a perfectly unbothered gooseberry pie cooling on a mossy stump by the reeds, she thought nothing of pinching it.

It smelled of summer rain and forgotten songs. The crust was dimpled with rosemary seeds, and the note beside it read only:
“Pie and Silence. Do Not Divide."

“But it’s pie," said Tansy to no one, which was a common practice among Brighton fairies. “And it’s just sitting there."

So she took it. All the way back to Brighton Bothan, where the others were decorating the mantelpiece with barnacles and unclaimed thoughts. She sliced it neatly. Poured tea. Lit the kettle moss.

And that’s when everything went quiet.

Not peaceful quiet. Not good-quiet.

The kind of quiet that made the teacups hum nervously. The kind of quiet that made Fitz the cat flatten his ears from four cottages away. A gooseberry hush, full of held breath and stories unspoken.

Tansy tried to speak--but the words folded up like washing. She blinked. The pie had vanished.

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Filed under: Purrport | Scribbled at the edge of Orla’s Map

No one saw Maeve arrive at Brighton Bothan, but everyone agreed the air changed when she did. The kind of change that makes teapots whistle unprovoked and cupboards re-organise themselves from fear of being next.

By late morning, the whisper trail had grown legs:

“She brought three spoons and not a one for stirring."

“Left the pie tin in the porch with a sprig of apology thyme, they say."

“That fairy with the mossy hat swears it was a tribute. Maeve swears it was theft."

Finn Morrigan was seen leaning against the old pump, one eyebrow raised in quiet judgement.

The Callagain sisters had differing reports on whether the pie contained bee magic. Brid said no. Nell said yes, and claimed the buzzing near the shed was evidence enough.

A crumpled flyer was tacked to the Purrport board by mid-afternoon:

REVISED MENU FOR THE PIE RECONCILIATION TEA

No second helpings

All guests must state their intentions clearly (out loud, not just emotionally)

Spoiled silences will not be returned

One musical offering permitted (tuneful or otherwise)

Near the reeds, Fitz the cat stared unblinkingly toward the Bothan, tail twitching once. Then again.

Filed under: Whim Wharf | Pie Reconciliation Log | Friday, Just Before the Rain

Maeve arrived precisely when the bells weren’t ringing. That is to say, when they should have rung--but didn’t. The hush that followed her was thick enough to slice, though no one dared serve it.

Inside the Bothan, a circle had formed:

The Brighton fairyfolk, looking like they’d just brushed their wings for a court date.

Finn Morrigan, who had no stake in pie matters but liked to loiter where truths got stuck.

Fitz the cat, who had claimed the velvet cushion and refused to be moved.

And Tansy Bitterwhistle, late but not sorry, clutching her hat like it owed her money.

On the center table: the remnants of the gooseberry pie. Uneaten. Possibly enchanted. Definitely offended.

Maeve stood at the head of the room, wooden spoon like a scepter, eyes twin pinpricks of pastry disappointment.
“A silence was stolen," she said. “And a recipe nearly unspelled."

A Brighton sprite stood. “We thought it was a gift."
“You thought wrong."
“But it was left by the reeds"--
“For cooling. Not courtship."

There followed a long, jammy pause.

Finn cleared his throat. “Might I suggest a... restitution?"
Maeve’s spoon twitched.
“A tea," he continued. “With forks of intention. No spells. No shouting. No seconds."

A rustle of reluctant nods.

Maeve considered. “If the fairypeople bring the shortbread, I’ll bring the forgiveness."
Fitz purred.
Tansy clapped once, loudly, startling herself.

And so it was agreed.

At sundown, they gathered again. The pie was reheated. The silence was toasted. And the spoons "bless them" were at rest.

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