Chapter 32 #3
"He destroyed it personally. Historic value." She laughed.
"The photos."
"Obviously."
"Finn's room." Her expression softened.
"All of it?"
"No." That answer surprised even me. I thought about the rooms upstairs, with beds left in the same positions, clothes still inside wardrobes, and objects preserved because nobody had been able to decide what to do with them.
"I don't want their bedrooms frozen forever." Skye watched me.
"They lived here. They didn't become saints because they died."
"No."
"Maeve would hate anyone turning her room into some shrine."
"What would she want?"
"Books."
"That's vague."
"She was a teacher."
"Library?" The idea landed.
"Aye." I could see Maeve's room immediately, lined with shelves and a desk near the window, some of her books mixed with new ones so the room would change with the life continuing around it instead of being preserved exactly as it had been on the day she died.
"Finn?" I swallowed.
"Guest room." Skye waited.
"He always wanted people coming and going. Wanted travel. Maybe his room should be the one where visitors stay." Her hand found mine.
"And your parents' room?" I looked toward the ceiling.
"Don't know yet."
"That's allowed."
"Aye." Silence settled again. Then I looked at her.
"What would you change?" She sat up slightly.
"Professionally?"
"Obviously."
"You're giving an interior designer permission?"
"Don't get excited."
"Too late." I could almost see her brain start working.
"The kitchen stays largely as it is."
"Good answer."
"But the lighting is terrible."
"Mam said that."
"Your mother was correct."
"Careful."
"The electrical system needs a full inspection before we start pretending sentimentality is more important than fire safety. Some of the windows can probably be restored rather than replaced. The sitting room floor needs attention. The upstairs bathroom is offensive." I stared at her.
"Offensive?"
"Deeply."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Everything." I laughed. She smiled. Then she looked toward the hallway.
"And the house needs people." That quieted me.
"People?"
"Houses like this die when nobody uses them.
" The sentence hit somewhere deeper than architecture.
I understood what she meant. Maybe she did too.
I looked toward the open doorway, where the hall stretched toward the kitchen and the staircase carried photographs of people who had once filled every part of this place.
"I can invite Eamon and Niamh."
"Good."
"Brigid will come whether I invite her."
"Obviously."
"The brothers." Skye smiled.
"Raze in this house?" I immediately regretted the idea.
"Absolutely not."
"Too late. You said it."
"I'll deny it."
"Storm will tell him."
"Fuck." She laughed hard enough to wince and grab her shoulder. My concern immediately surfaced. She pointed at me.
"Don't."
"You're injured."
"I'm bruised."
"Same thing."
"It isn't." I touched her face instead. That shut both of us up. My thumb moved carefully beneath the scrape along her cheek.
"Could've lost you tonight." The words came quietly. Her expression changed.
"You didn't."
"I know."
"I could've lost you too."
"Aye."
"We still don't get to make choices for each other because we're scared."
"I know." She studied me.
"Do you?"
"Aye." I leaned closer.
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I."
"Good."
Her mouth curved. I kissed her gently, not because fear demanded proof she was alive or because grief had cracked something open, but because she was sitting beside me in Mam's old place on the sofa, arguing about lighting and bathrooms in a house neither of us had expected to imagine a future inside.
When the kiss ended, Skye remained close.
"We should sleep."
"Aye."
"Actual sleep."
"Debatable."
"Your first instinct is improving and your second remains questionable."
"I contain multitudes."
She laughed. We turned off the lights downstairs but left the fireplace burning low behind the guard.
At the foot of the stairs, I looked back.
The sitting room remained visible through the open doorway, firelight moving faintly across the walls.
For years, I had imagined preserving the farmhouse meant loving my family.
Standing there with Skye's hand in mine, I understood how wrong I'd been.
Preservation wasn't the same as devotion.
Leaving every room untouched hadn't kept Mam, Da, Maeve, or Finn alive.
It had only kept me from living beside their memories without letting those memories control what came next.
Tomorrow we would open Finn's case, meet investigators, and learn what Declan had hidden and how far the Order had spread.
Eventually we would leave County Clare again, but not forever.
I turned toward Skye and started upstairs.
The farmhouse wasn't a shrine anymore, and I wasn't its caretaker; it was my home.
Maybe, one day, ours in whatever complicated form two stubborn people divided between Scotland, America, and Ireland eventually managed to create.
For tonight, knowing I wanted the possibility was enough.