Tyler Hillis

Maeve Flowers stared into the blazing furnace. She drove her shovel into the pile of charcoal at her side, heaved it into the fire, and felt a fresh wave of heat. Next to the charcoal were broken barrels and furniture, waiting to be recycled into fuel. 

Maeve set her shovel down and left the sweltering room through the heavy iron door. Outside, a gentle snow fell to the cobblestone streets of Dublin, and Maeve breathed in the fresh air.

A man trudged toward her. His face sunken and boney.

“Just who I was looking for.” He rubbed his hands together. 

“Come inside Peter. Warm up.” Maeve opened her iron door. Peter entered. “Have you eaten today?”

“No,” he replied. “They closed the soup kitchens this week.”

“Fucking English bastards.” She huffed.

Peter shifted, then said, “So, you know those men I met last week? The ones offerin’ heaps of money for the farm Pa left me?”

Maeve’s eyes narrowed. “Aye…”

“Well, they changed the deal. And they say I already agreed to the sale, so I can’t back out now.”

Maeve sighed. “I’m not helping you with this one, Pete. The farm is yours—daughters don’t receive inheritance. I’ve made my own way. You need to make yours.”

“I’m just asking you to talk to them.”

Maeve reached into her bag, withdrew a stale loaf of bread, and tossed it to her brother. 

“Good luck, Pete. I’ve got work to do.”

Maeve picked up a broken barrel, throwing it into the furnace. She felt a nibble of cold as her brother left.

Later that week the gentle snow turned into a violent freeze. A layer of ice covered the city. Maeve walked carefully from her home to begin her day. 

Two stocky men in thick coats waited outside her iron door. Their faces full, their smiles sinister. 

“Are you the woman stoker of Dublin’s famous brewery?”

“Perhaps,” Maeve replied, digging in her pockets for her key.

“I’m George Miller. This is my associate Mr. Bellwether.” The other man tipped his cap. “We’ve been negotiating the sale of your brother’s farm fo—,”

Maeve laughed. “Negotiating? More like forcing.”

“Nonetheless, we’re here because your brother has signed the land over to you.”

Maeve had to admit Peter was clever. These men would never stop harassing him as long as he owned the small blight-ridden farm. Vultures, after all, stalked starving creatures. How many other farmers had they scavenged before him? 

She found her key and walked between the men to the iron door. She held it open.

“Care to step inside?”

“It’ll be nice to escape this cold, thank you,” George said. 

The furnace was not yet lit, so when Maeve shut the door behind her, the room fell into darkness.

“Perhaps a light, Ms. Flo—”

There was a loud thud as a chair leg connected with George’s jaw. 

“George? Are you—”

Maeve Flowers stared into the blazing furnace. She hadn’t touched the charcoal yet today, instead using recycled goods as fuel.