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What Goes Around, Comes Around
Garen Connolly woke late. It was his one major flaw, sleeping in, and it caused him quite a bit of trouble with the foreman at the factory where he worked. This morning in particular, he managed to sleep though his alarm clock ringing at the respectable hour of five am, not waking up until nearly eight. When he realized what time it was, he literally fell out of bed, rolled into his clothes, and ran out of the room, tucking his shirt in as he went.
The factory was already bustling as our miscreant tried to sneak in the door. Women and older children tended the machines, making sure everything was running smoothly as younger children ran back and forth, fetching and carrying. Garen checked in at the door and went to his post, hoping no one would notice him.
“Connolly!” someone shouted. Garen froze. The foreman strode forward, face red from the heat of the machines and his own high blood pressure. “You’re late again, Connolly, you filthy little mick.”
If Garen had been just a little more impulsive and had just a little less sense, he would have punched the man in the face. As it was he scowled and muttered a string of curses under his breath as he bent his head back to his work. A cuff on the ear broke his concentration, and a hand forced him to spin around to face the foreman. Behind him, a thread snagged on something, and he winced as it whirled itself into a tangle.
“Connolly, I'm sick of dealing with your insolence,” the older man shouted, spraying Garen with spittle. “Consider yourself fired!”
“Aye, an' gladly, ye spawn of a castrated goldfish turd!” Garen yelled back. He was fired, after all. There was nothing more they could do to him. He grabbed his cap off one of the hooks by the door and marched out.
“What am I gonna do now?” Garen said to himself. “I can't pay for rent an' food if I don't have a job.” He thought for a minute. “Suppose I'll get another, though it doesn't seem likely.” A drop of rain landed on his nose. “Just when things couldn't get any worse,” he muttered. Then an idea struck. “I've done nothin' wrong,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I kin talk to the owner of the factory, get on his good side an' get me job back.
“Or at least get the foreman fired.”
It was with renewed vigour that he continued down the street, turning a few times on his way to the better part of town where he knew the owner of the factory lived. Checking the address to the one on the card he carried in his pocket, he went up to the door and knocked.
“May I help you?” a maidservant asked, looking down her nose at the poorly dressed young man on the doorstep.
“Yes, I'd like to speak to Mr. Newcombe,” Garen said, speaking carefully so his brogue wouldn't show through as much.
The maid seemed fooled. “Who should I say is calling?”
“Garen Connolly.”
“That's an Irish name, isn't it?”
“On my father's side only, and that fairly far back. We came over in 1742.” Garen crossed his fingers in his pocket, hoping that she'd believe the partial lie. It was he himself who had come over from Scotland in 1742 as an indentured servant, and if Garen had ever met his real father, he didn’t remember him.
The maid nodded slowly, then narrowed her eyes. Garen felt panic rising to the surface of his mind, and put all his willpower into fighting it and the unnerving uncertainty: had he slipped back into his brogue? He didn’t think he had, but who knows…
No. He wasn’t going to think about it. If he’d slipped into brogue, he had slipped into brogue, and there was nothing he could do save hope that she hadn’t noticed, or that she’d pass it off as a linguistic fluke.
“Where’s your mother’s family from?” the maid asked.
“None of your business,” Garen said authoritively. “I’m here to see Mr. Newcombe, not to tell you about my heritage.”
“I’m terribly sorry sir,” the maid said, though she obviously wasn’t sorry at all. “It’s not my place to question my master’s visitors.” With that, she slammed the door in Garen’s face. Garen swore loudly, then sat down on the steps to think.
A few minutes later found Garen floundering around in the bushes by the side of the house, trying to get to the back door. He finally managed to break free of the brambles. Nearby was the back door, open to catch the breeze.
Sprinting up the stairs, Garen thought out his next move. He hadn’t found Mr. Newcombe’s study on the first or second floors, and the house only had four. The fourth floor was the servants’ quarters, and not a place for the master of the house to have his study. Therefore the study must be on the third floor, he thought as he stepped onto the landing.
The first three doors proved to be empty bedrooms. The fourth was locked. The fifth, sixth, and seventh were more guestrooms. Garen went back to the fourth door and knelt to examine the lock. Covering it with his left hand, he sent a wave of magic through it, pushing the cogs into place with a click. He stood up, grinning, and swung the door open.
Mr. Newcombe was hunched over some paperwork on his desk. “Bertha, I said I don’t want any tea—” he said before looking up. “Who are you?”
“I’m Garen Connolly,” Garen said, happily switching over to his distinctive brogue. “Ye don’t know me, but I work for ye, in one of the factories. At least, I did till today. I slept a bit late, on account of the long hours, and when I came in, the foreman boxed me ears and fired me.”
Mr. Newcombe nodded. “I’m very sorry,” he said simply. Garen sincerely doubted it, but continued.
“He mistreats the girls at the factory too, tries to get them alone. He’s fired more than one of them for refusin’ him.”
Mr Newcombe frowned. “I can’t have that,” he said. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Now I must ask you—Who let you into my house, and how did you get through the door when I clearly remember locking it?”
“Do you really want to know?” Garen asked, trying not to grin.
“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Mr. Newcombe admitted. “I’m a powerful man, and I have enemies. If you were able to enter for good reasons, someone else maybe able to enter for ill.”
Grinning, Garen allowed the illusion that made his ears appear round to fade away. He sighed with relief as the buzzing at the back of his mind faded with it.
“You see,” Garen began. “I’m not human.” Mr. Newcombe’s eyes widened as he realized that the person before him had long, pointed ears like one of the fairies in his daughter’s storybooks. “Ye think you’re seein’ things, that ye’re goin’ mad, don’t ye?” The man nodded dumbly.
“It might be so,” the boy continued. “And it might not. But if you fire the foreman, I’ll keep quiet about this meeting.” Mr. Newcombe nodded again, then began scribbling on a sheet of paper. He handed the paper to Garen.
“To John Tobar,
I have caught wind of your doings, and have seen fit to remove you from my service. Please remove your presence from my factory as soon as possible. You are not to return, and I shall inform my colleagues of your misdemeanors.
Sincerely,
Mr. James Newcombe”
Garen read it, satisfied. He gave Mr. Newcombe a brief, but humble bow, then let himself out the front door.
“This is from Mr. Newcombe,” he told the man. He watched as the foreman’s face went from its usual crimson to pale oatmeal, then a brilliant scarlet.
“Do you know what this says?” he growled.
“I believe it says ‘Consider yourself fired’,” Garen said with a grin.
