Zara tugged on the gate, but it didn’t budge.
“It’s always locked,” Branwen said.
“You never know,” Zara replied. “Maybe one day it won’t be. How will we know if we don’t try?”
Branwen looked at her watch. “I know we’d better not be late today.”
“We’ll come back after work, stand here as long as it takes. We’re not leaving until they at least take the homebrew.” Zara smiled. “We will each be the best of the best of all brewers in all the world. We will each be a grúdaire of First Call.” She said it again, slowly, “Gruhd-uh-ruh,” savoring each syllable like a long swallow of stout. We’re going to make it, Branwen. I know it.”
“We’re already really good brewers, Zara.”
Zara nodded. “We are. But that’s not enough. There are brewers… and then there are na Grúdairí.”
With a last, longing look at the gate, Zara and Branwen continued walking to work, dreaming of the day when at last they would walk together through the gate, then the black doors. The first new members of na Grúdairí in decades. But not today.
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