Blessed Mary, don’t children hear everything? The child’s big blue eyes, too large for one so small, looked up through the black curls brushing over her face in the autumnal breeze. Maeve hesitated, wondering if she ignored it perhaps Augusta would not insist. She curled her fingers around the child’s and pulled her more insistently toward the flat. “Ma, my father was named Augusta?” Maeve couldn’t help but to give a laugh. “No, Goosie. Your father’s name was August. Not exactly the same, but close.” “If I was a boy, would you have named me Maevibald?” “No, I imagine you would have been named … ” Maeve stopped herself short. Augusta noticed the abrupt cut off and turned a familiar grin. “I probably would have named you Aurora, after my da,” Maeve quickly recovered. The lass seemed satisfied with the response as Maeve turned the corner of Federal and Congress towards the old wood warehouse remade to house Irish.
