"Put her down, you hear? Or I'll fly up there meself and tear your fey hide to shreds."
The fairy had the gall to laugh at Bran, and with a wave of her wand, he was born aloft. "Why don't you stop running your dirty mouth and be of some service to a good fairy?"
"You wretched, filthy, no-good-doin', smarmy—"
With another flick of her wand, Bran's jaw clamped shut, and in through the window he drifted, landing silently in the bassinet.
"Until we meet again, dear one."
Bran sat up and looked out the window, but the fairy was nowhere to be seen. It then came to his notice that the missus had lit a candle and was coming over to check on her infant. What was he going to say? He had always been such a good little brownie; would they turn him out in the cold? Would he be forced to work at the orphanage where his cousin Barm worked?
Mrs. Keefe lowered the flame to look at him, then let out a shriek. "Mr. Keefe! Come quick; the baby, she's—she's—"
The brownie sat up and tried to explain what had happened. "Madam, forgive me; the fey, she came and—and—"
"What is all this rumpus?" Mr. Keefe asked. One look at Bran and he too let out a cry. "Who are you?"
"Bran the Brownie, at your service."