6. Shadows at the Door
Shadows at the Door
I step into the house through the open library door, ignoring Saoirse’s futile attempt to shield me from my mother’s impending wrath.
I pause, letting the stillness of the room settle over me. It’s the quietest place in the house—my father no doubt left the doors open to air it out, as he always does. His quiet thoughtfulness never fails to warm me.
I note the room remains untouched as I run my fingers along the familiar spines of the books. It feels like a sanctuary, a place that has served as my refuge since childhood. Lessons with Deidre turned it into my second bedroom, and many nights, I’ve fallen asleep here amid the pages.
I sigh and make my way toward the kitchen.
Passing through the gallery room, I catch a fleeting glimpse of movement outside the windows.
By the time I turn to look more closely, the figures—if there were any—have vanished.
It seemed like two grown men walking together, which makes no sense.
My brothers and Eamon are still out front.
Frustration stirs as I reach the foyer outside the kitchen. Deciding my mother deserves it, I shout, “Ellen Sinclair!” She abhors shouting indoors, and using her full name is the ultimate provocation.
The foyer is barren by design, maintained like a museum display rather than a lived-in space. From here, I hear hurried footsteps approaching. My father rounds the corner first, his face radiant with delight. He closes the distance between us in a few long strides.
“Mo nighean bheag!” he exclaims, pulling me into a crushing hug. Before I can return the embrace, he lifts me off the ground and spins me in a circle.
When he sets me down, he places his hands on either side of my face and plants a kiss on each cheek. “I missed you too, Da,” I say, tears of joy springing to my eyes. He gently wipes them away. “But we’ve discussed this. I’m not so little anymore.”
“Ye’ll always be my little lassie, Tri,” he insists. Then, leaning close, he whispers, “But even as yer Da, I cannae protect ye from what’s comin’.” Straightening, he glances over his shoulder as a hand clasps his arm. My eyes widen as he mouths a silent ‘ sorry ’.
My mother’s radiant figure steps into view, her expression a blend of disapproval and elegance. Her gaze fixes on my father with practiced suspicion. “What did ye tell her, James?” she demands. Her uncanny ability to predict his every move is as sharp as ever.
Sensing trouble brewing, I intervene, slipping to her side and enveloping her in a hug. She immediately reciprocates, her hand rubbing my back in comfort before pulling away to inspect me.
“Hi, Ma,” I breathe. Her composure falters, and a tear escapes down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly. “I missed ye so much,” she confesses, her voice thick with emotion.
Grinning brightly, I reply, “I missed you, too.” She gently pinches my chin, a familiar gesture from my childhood. “Ye’re truly a sight, Caitríona,” she says, her voice tender. “My little butterfly with emerald eyes and amber-brown hair… and a knack for gettin’ under my skin like no other.”
And there it is .
I glance at my father and catch him gazing adoringly at her, as if the rest of the world has disappeared. The two of them are always in sync, their bond palpable even in moments of conflict. I find it both endearing and frustrating—a united front against me.
Crossing her arms, my mother’s expression sharpens. “Ye’re lucky I love ye so much. Using my full name in front of company…”
Company? I knew it.
Before she can unleash a full-blown maternal lecture, salvation arrives in the form of loud bickering from the doorway. Callan and Casey stomp in mid-argument, voices growing louder by the second.
“Nae, I handled hoof care last time,” Callan grumbles, throwing his hands in the air. “I willnae keep doin’ it for ye, Casey. I’m not yer bloody stable hand.”
Casey scoffs. “Aye, but ye’re so much better at it—”
“That’s not the point, ye lazy shite!”
Casey claps a hand over his chest, feigning deep offense. “Lazy? Lazy?! I’ll have ye ken I work hard!”
Callan glares at him. “Oh, aye? Work hard at what? Sittin’ on fences lookin’ important?”
“I provide morale, you ungrateful bastard.”
“Morale?! Is that what ye call sleepin’ in the hayloft while I’m knee-deep in manure?”
“I was supervisin’!”
“Then tell me, Casey, did the horses mentally clean their hooves while ye were nappin’?”
“I—I was testin’ the structural integrity of the hay!”
Callan throws his hands up. “Saints above, ye’re insufferable.”
Casey grins. “Aye, and ye’re—”
“I swear on the saints, if ye dinnae stop yer yammerin’!” My mother’s voice slices through their squabbling like a dagger.
The transformation is immediate.
Callan and Casey freeze mid-motion—one with arms raised in frustration, the other mid-step as if he’s about to launch into a dramatic re-enactment of his supposed labour.
Just like that, Callan seizes the moment—striking first like a seasoned warrior—stepping forward to press a quick kiss to Ma’s cheek. Casey follows suit, both of them suddenly transformed from bickering idiots into obedient sons, their earlier fight erased from existence.
Meanwhile, I stand back, watching the miraculous scene unfold, deeply impressed by their ability to switch sides at the first sign of danger.
I lean toward my father and murmur, “They’re like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Aye, but clever rats.”
My father pulls me into a tight embrace. As if I might vanish if he lets go. I look up to meet his gaze at him, offering a sweet smile.
“You owe me,” I whisper playfully, to which he responds with a chuckle and a nod.
The commotion subsides as Dealla, Saoirse, and Eamon join us, their presence adding warmth to the gathering.
“It’s good to have all three of ye back under one roof,” my mother remarks. “Some of ye hardly wrote home.” I fight the incessant urge to roll my eyes, knowing full well my brothers kept her updated on every detail of my life.
Turning her attention to me, she adds, “And Triona, we’ll need to fit ye for new dresses. Ye’re spilling out of that one.” Her comment catches me off guard, and I instinctively cover myself up.
Flushing crimson, I stammer, “I can’t help being blessed as I am!” Laughter erupts around me, breaking the lingering tension and filling the room with easy camaraderie.
Casey, always mischievous, chimes in. “Triona has a very interestin’ story to tell ye’ll about indecency.
I’m sure she’d love to share with the ladies.
Hows about us men leave you to it?” The collective sigh of relief from the menfolk is almost theatrical as they seize the opportunity to leave, practically tripping over themselves in their haste.
Dealla and Saoirse waste no time sidling closer to my mother, their curiosity as obvious as their grins.
“What’s Casey going on about?” Saoirse asks, her bluntness slicing cleanly through the awkward tension.
“Ugh, I’m going to wring his neck, the bastard!” I mutter, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Language, Triona,” my mother scolds.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I run out of my room in haste one time— once —and wouldn’t you know that both my brothers were in the direct vicinity to witness it. ”
All three women exchange a glance, their faces unreadable except for the faintest hint of suspicion. Then, my mother fixes me with that look —the one that says she’ll not let me off the hook without full disclosure.
I groan. “I ran out in my sheer sleepwear.”
My mother gasps, one hand flying to her chest as if I’d just confessed to a heinous crime. “Triona! What were ye thinkin’?”
Meanwhile, Saoirse and Dealla double over in laughter, the pair of them nearly in tears as they lean on each other for support.
“I am so happy to know my misery brings such joy to the both of you,” I say, crossing my arms and glaring at them.
Dealla waves a hand at me, trying and failing to catch her breath. “Oh, Triona, you’ve painted such a picture—I can just see Casey’s face now. Mortified, wasn’t he?”
“Mortified?!” I exclaim. “He’s been bringing it up at every opportunity since, the little devil!”
“Sounds like Casey,” Saoirse says, her grin wide and unapologetic. “But honestly, Triona? Ye’re lucky yer da wasn’t about, or he’d still be tryin’ to recover.”
I groan again, my face surely as red as Saoirse’s hair. “That’s it. I’m moving out and changing my name. You’ll never hear from me again.”
Dealla pats my shoulder, still chuckling. “Oh love, it’s not half as bad as you think. Just be glad Casey didn’t drag out your embarrassment in front of the men.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Give him time. He’ll find a way.”
“True,” Saoirse agrees, smirking. “But ‘til then, at least we’ve this moment to savour.”
Just then, my father calls for my mother from the kitchen. She moves to squeeze my hand before calling back out to him. “Go get settled and freshened up, dealan-dé. I’ll call for ye.” Before she turns to leave, she lingers for a moment, her gaze locking onto mine.
In that fleeting moment, I detect a hint of sorrow in her eyes. Before I can say anything, she quickly masks it with a smile, releases my hand, and walks away.
As I watch her form disappear, an urge wells up inside me to throw my arms around my mother and offer her comfort. Sensing that beneath her composed exterior, she’s grappling with something on her own—all alone with her thoughts.
Dealla clasps my shoulders, practically shoving me toward my room, wrenching me from the spiral of my own thoughts.
“Gods, I thought we’d never get a moment alone!
There are things no letter can capture, and we’ve so much to catch up on.
” Her words, warm and insistent, dispel the lingering weight of the day.
With a gentle smile, I let her lead me away, and we step into the quiet refuge of our shared haven, leaving the chaos behind.
I change and situate myself just in time for my mother to walk in to us standing around one another, laughing.
“Ah, what a sight,” she says as she beams at us. “Seeing ye three ladies back together makes me miss being yer age. My auld lassies and I used to find ourselves in all kinds o’ trouble.”
She smiles at us with such warmth, her face alight with joy, and for a moment, I wish I could freeze the scene—capture it and hold it forever.
The sounds of male laughter from somewhere in the house shatter the peaceful moment. My mother’s gaze shifts, and she turns.
“Right, well, ye’re needed, dear. Someone’s here to see ye.” She gestures for me to join her side and loops her arm through mine. I glance over my shoulder at Saoirse and Dealla. Their guilt is obvious and hard to miss. I mouth ‘ no warning? ’ and Saoirse mouths back ‘we were threatened ’.
Sensing my hesitation, my mother tugs me along. “There’s nary a need for temporisation, Triona. He’s been waitin’ all day!” Her voice is light as she tries to comfort me, but the flutter in my stomach intensifies.
“He?” I repeat, my voice a blade of curiosity tempered by dread.
“Aye dear, ye heard correctly.” With no further explanation, I’m dragged alongside her.
My father, Eamon, and Casey, crowd around the backdoor, speaking to someone just outside. I can’t see or hear who the person might be, but Ma will undoubtedly make quick work of that. Callan props himself against the wall, looking displeased .
“Don’t crowd him!” My mother scolds. Callan huffs from his position against the wall, and when I look at him, his jaw ticks.
As the doorway clears, my vantage point becomes obvious. When our eyes lock, as he walks through the doorway, my breath hitches.
I am all too familiar with the person before me, but everything about him has changed. No longer the boy I once knew—every bit a powerful man. His fair coloured hair, shorter than it used to be, brushes just below his ears, but those eyes—those same piercing blue eyes—haven’t changed.
He steps through the doorway, his bright eyes fixed on me, and I feel my pulse quicken further.
“There you are, beauty… I have missed you.” There’s a new weight to his voice—richer, lower—curling around me as he closes the distance, his hand lifting toward me.
I follow the silent pull of his gesture, watching, mesmerised, as he brings my hand to his lips—a token far more intimate than anything from our youth.
The boy that took my first kiss.
Marcus Murray is breathtaking—and the hunger in his eyes, raw and unrelenting, leaves no doubt about what he wants. He’s not here to reminisce or rekindle an old friendship. He’s here for something far more significant.
My mind reels as realisation sets in. This meeting, this moment, hasn’t been left to chance. My mother, in her quiet, persistent way, has been planning this, setting the pieces in motion well before today.
As Marcus holds my gaze, a strange, unbidden thought weaves its way into my mind. For just a moment, I allow myself to imagine it—to wonder what it might be like to be his. There’s something electric about the way he watches my every move, and it makes my heart race in a way I can’t quite control.
I should not want this.
Within minutes of standing near him, I feel my resolve and the need for self-preservation slipping.
But somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, a voice calls to me. Faint but unmistakable. A quiet reminder that this—whatever this is—cannot be my fate. Somewhere in the world’s vastness, another exists.
Someone who is meant for me, and I for him.