Chapter 16 Green of the Unholy Crown
Chapter sixteen
Green of the Unholy Crown
Cillian
Morning comes slow. The kind of soft, grey Dublin light that never quite commits to being sunshine—just hangs in the air like a held breath.
Rouge moves around the flat with heavy steps and heavier sighs, checking weapons, packing extra mags, muttering to himself about entrances and exits and “ just in case, Cillian.”
Siobhán stands at the mirror, and Christ, she’s a dream I don’t deserve.
Her gown is daytime beautiful—ivory silk that skims her body, pleated softly at the waist, the neckline modest enough for a children’s hall but still sinful on her.
Her hair is half pinned, soft curls brushing her shoulders.
A little ribbon of emerald at her wrist, matching the green in her eyes. My color. My curse. My anchor.
She’s quiet. Too quiet. Not the focused-pre-performance quiet. Not the trying-not-to-panic quiet. Not even the I’m-ignoring-you-on-purpose quiet. This is the kind of silence that scares men like me.
I watch her from the doorway—Rouge adjusting the straps of her piano case, me pretending like my arm doesn’t ache from the stitches, like last night’s blood isn’t drying beneath my shirt. She smooths the skirt of her gown once. Twice. She’s doing it just to do something with her hands.
“Dove?” I murmur.
She doesn’t look up. She’s somewhere far away inside her head. And I don’t like where she’s gone. I step toward her. Slow. Careful. Like she’s a wild thing that might bolt—or break. My fingers slip beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
Christ… tears. Clinging to her lashes. Threatening to spill. My Siobhán never cries. Not unless the world’s cracking open under her feet.
“Mo chroí,” I whisper, voice low, rough.
Her breath catches. A tiny, shaking sound. Then a wet little laugh, small and pathetic and somehow still the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I love you,” she whispers, the words tumbling out like she’s been holding them in her mouth for years. “I finally got you back—I can’t lose you again, Cillian. I can’t go back to New York, I can’t stay here, the manor is ruined and everything is—”
I kiss her. Hard. Fast. Just to stop the spiral before it eats her alive. She exhales against my mouth, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“We’ll figure it all out after the holidays,” I murmur against her lips. “All of it. I promise.”
I kiss her again, slower this time. Rouge clears his throat loudly enough to rattle the hinges on the door.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands like a man desperate to avoid witnessing whatever comes next, “hate to break up the heartfelt masterpiece, but we’re on a bloody schedule, lovebirds.”
Siobhán huffs a tiny laugh. I press one last kiss to her forehead, then guide her out of the room with my hand low on her back.
The city slips by in blurred strokes of gray and gold, the winter morning softening every sharp edge. A light snow has started—barely-there flakes drifting lazily past the windows like misplaced notes falling from a half-finished symphony.
She sits beside me in the back seat, wrapped in a faux fur coat the color of moonlight. Luxurious. Soft. A little old-Hollywood, a little fallen-angel. Perfect on her. She gazes out the window, watching Dublin wake under a thin veil of white. And I… watch her.
Always her.
Her reflection in the glass is the kind of thing men carve into stone. Her profile, serene and aching, could silence a full orchestra mid-crescendo.
God help me, she looks like music— like a crescendo pulled taut over a heartbeat, like a violin string trembling right before it snaps, like a hymn sung by someone who’s forgotten how to pray.
The snow gathers in flurries around the car as we glide down the street, and I swear the world goes quiet for her, as if even the weather knows Dublin’s darling is passing through.
Rouge mutters something to himself up front, but I barely hear it. All I can think is if she asked me to stop the car right now, I’d kneel in the snow at her feet, kiss the frost from her lashes, and swear my loyalty all over again.
Because Siobhán Kelleher is my favorite melody— and I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to play her right.
The car barely stops before Rouge is out, scanning the street, the rooftops, the windows—every shadow an enemy until proven otherwise. I step out first and offer my hand to Siobhán. She takes it. And just like that, the world rearranges itself around her.
Inside the children’s music hall, warmth hits us like a held breath released. The space is decorated in soft winter colors—silvers, pale greens, paper snowflakes made by little hands. But all of it pales when she walks through the door.
Every head turns. Every voice hushes. Every tiny body vibrates with excitement.
I guide her forward with a hand at her back, presenting her the way she deserves—like the prize she is.
The duchess. The darling of Dublin. My best friend.
My first love. The siren who stole my heart at seven years old and never gave it back.
The kids spot her and the place erupts.
“She’s here!”
“Miss Siobhán!”
“Look! Look! I made you a flower!”
A swarm of small humans rushes her, arms full of roses—pink ones, red ones, some so wilted they must’ve been held in warm fists since dawn. She kneels instantly, slipping into their level with practiced grace.
“Are these for me?” she asks, hand over her heart.
A little girl with braids nods so hard her hair flies. “We all brought one! ‘Cause you’re the best piano lady ever!”
Siobhán laughs—soft, warm, honey-sweet. She thanks each child by name if she knows it, asks them about their days, touches their hair, fixes a collar, ties a shoe. She has always been this way—gentle, endlessly giving, born to be adored by those small enough to see magic clearly.
The teachers hurry over, laughing as they shepherd the kids into some sort of line, trying to part the sea of adoring chaos. “Alright, alright—let the poor woman breathe,” one of them jokes.
“She has to actually get to the piano to play for you lot,” another adds.
“Let her through, loves—Miss Kelleher can’t play from the hallway!”
The children reluctantly peel away, still buzzing, still clutching their roses as though she’s a storybook character stepped off the page. She glances back at me once—just once—over her shoulder. And Christ, that look could bring an army to its knees.
She steps onto the small stage, her gown catching the lights, every inch of her luminous. She smooths her skirt, takes her seat before the polished piano, and the children scamper into their rows, chattering excitedly.
Rouge and I take our positions in the back—two shadows, two sentries, surrounded by toddlers and paper snowflakes. And for a moment, everything feels… still. The moment her fingers touch the keys, the room transforms.
A single twinkle of sound—soft, snowy, familiar—and the kids gasp as if she’s performed real magic. Then she launches into “Let It Snow,” bright and playful, her wrists dancing, her foot tapping lightly on the pedal.
“Come on,” she calls to them, eyes sparkling. “You know this one.”
And they do. Thirty little voices belt it out, completely off-key, completely earnest. She laughs mid-measure, that warm, bell-like sound that makes even the walls feel like they’re leaning in to listen.
She nods at the shy ones, encourages the loud ones, and when a tiny boy screams the wrong lyric at the wrong time, she winks at him like he’s just saved the entire performance.
Then she slips smoothly into “Winter Wonderland.” The kids clap wildly, teachers swaying, Rouge humming along like a man possessed.
He pretends he’s not emotional, but the bastard’s eyes shine every time the chorus hits.
Her playing is flawless—the kind you only get from genius and heartbreak and years of using music to survive.
She plays a few more Christmas songs—“Silent Night,” “Frosty the Snowman,” even a silly, fast little jingle that gets the toddlers bouncing in their chairs like popcorn kernels. Then she settles her hands on the keys and grins wickedly at the adults.
“This one is for you,” she teases, and begins “Fairytale of New York.”
The teachers cheer. Rouge claps a hand over his heart and groans, “Finally,” before joining in on the very first line. And God help me, it’s beautiful. The adults sing. The kids try their best. Siobhán’s voice wraps around the room—clear, aching, Irish to the bone.
A tear slips down her cheek, catching in the stage lights. But she’s smiling, glowing, alive in a way I haven’t seen in years. She’s singing with them, letting herself belong—really belong—to this moment. I find myself singing too, quietly at first, then louder, unable to stop.
Because this is everything she deserves.
Everything we dreamed about in the dark when we were young and stupid and in love.
Four bedrooms at the stable. Four children.
A life where her music is free and she is safe and I am hers without blood on my hands.
It hits me with the force of a bullet: I still want that life.
I still want it with her. And I want it now.
As the last chord fades, the children erupt—cheering, clapping, waving their roses like tiny victorious warriors. She bows, radiant, wiping her cheek before anyone can notice the tear. Rouge gathers her case. Teachers thank her. Parents approach with gratitude spilling from their mouths.
And she handles it all with grace. My woman. My siren. My impossible dream. But underneath it—underneath the glow and applause—I feel it. The weight. The truth. What waits for me at the manor. What I have to do. What I can’t let her see unless I choose it. And God help me, I am choosing it.
The moment the car doors close, silence blankets the three of us. Not the peaceful kind—from the hall. The heavy, storm-brewing kind.