Standard Fanfic Disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: this is an amateur work of fiction, done for a writing prompt at a writer's workshop and slightly edited to be posted here. No money has been made off it; no money will be made off it. It is my first piece of RPF and has never been posted at any other website nor printed in any fanzine or APA. (As FanFiction.net doesn't permit RPF stories, it's not likely to be posted elsewhere, either.) No insult is meant to Máiréad Nesbitt -- I hope she never reads this, but if she does, I hope she isn't offended. All other names have been changed to protect the
guilty innocent. PWP -- Plot? What Plot?
by Susan M. M.
I was trying not to jump up and down like a little kid at Disneyland for the first time. My husband had donated more money than was sensible to PBS, and now that the show was over, we were about to meet Celtic Woman in person. I tried to look mature and dignified, not like a crazed fangirl who'd flown to an SF con in Mooseskull, Minnesota just for the chance to drool over Paul Darrow's shoes, as the line of other people who'd given too much money to PBS slowly edged forward. I took a deep breath and adjusted my tartan sash. I glanced at my husband, handsome in his kilt, and tried not to think about what the tickets had cost, nor what the babysitter was charging.
A security guard checked our names against the list. She was a big woman, with frizzy black hair and a coffee with lots of cream complexion. Her name tag read Shetula.
"Amina?" I asked in disbelief. "Amina Shetula?" I hadn't seen her in over twenty years, not since our high school graduation, but Shetula isn't a name you forget easily.
"Mary Sue?" She looked at me, then at my name on the list. "Mary Sue MacMurray?"
"Yeah, it's Ferguson now. This is my husband, Ed."
Amina got that glint in her eyes -- the one that always meant trouble back in high school. "You still read fantasy? Elves and dragons and such?"
"C'mon, I got something to show you." She called to another guard to take over for her and led us aside.
"What did you think of our fiddler?" Amina asked us, as she took us toward the dressing rooms.
"She's great," I said.
"The way she plays and dances, it's like she's not fully human," Ed said. "We always joke that she must be half-Sidhe."
"She is," Amina said. She opened a door, and there was Máiréad Nesbitt, drinking a cup of tea. She had gossamer wings on her back. Pixies surrounded her. "You're not the first to guess. She's half-human, half-Fair Folk. Máiréad, this is an old friend of mine and her husband: Mary Sue and Ed Ferguson."
"Hello." The fiddler smiled up at us. "Would you like a cuppa?"