Chapter 15 #3
Aoife bit her tongue. She wanted to shout at him, wanted to tell him she didn’t care about economic stability when the people she’d known all her life were slowly starving to death.
He rose, calm but final, and set his napkin on the table. “You are too young and too naive to understand the world as it is.”
He crossed to the bellpull and rang once. Alton appeared moments later.
Halverton handed his now empty glass to Kit. “Tell the stable master to ready my horse,” he said. “I will be riding out.”
Aoife blinked. “Now? In this weather?”
He straightened the cuffs of his coat. “It is only a bit of wind. It has been too long since I left the estate. And,” his tone cooled, “I need space from certain… incessant concerns.”
Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t spoken of the village in over a week. She’d swallowed every question, every plea, every rising fury.
As he passed her chair, Halverton paused.
“You have made remarkable progress,” he said softly, offering praise to a favoured pupil. “Your posture, your diction… You impressed me last night. And my guests adored you.”
Aoife managed a thin smile.
“But,” Halverton continued, “you must let certain matters drop. Managing the county is my burden, not yours. How I choose to do so is not your concern.”
Her jaw ached from holding back her response.
He leaned closer. “Take time to reflect on how you want the rest of your life to go. You are nearly perfect as a lady. Do not ruin what could be a brilliant life… for a few insignificant peasants.”
He walked out without waiting for her reply.
The door clicked shut.
Aoife burst out of her chair as though she’d been struck.
The sound tore from her throat, half laugh, half sob.
She grabbed a napkin and hurled it across the room, but the act gave no relief.
‘A few insignificant peasants.’ He dared to call her father, her siblings merely ‘a few insignificant peasants.’ She wanted to scream.
Her gaze caught on the vase in the centre of the table: Florence’s favourite flowers. The stems taunted her, perfect and pale.
Aoife lunged for the flowers, yanking them out of the vase and bringing them down hard against the table.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Petals scattered like torn silk. Leaves flew. Stalks snapped. She struck until the stems bent and broke, and her breath came ragged. Until the last of her restraint shattered with them.
She collapsed to the floor, skirts pooling around her, knees drawn to her chest. Her breath hitched, hot tears mixing with the cold pre storm-wind leaking through the window frames.
Soft, hesitant footsteps approached her.
Aoife looked up.
James and Kit were already moving to collect petals, brushing fragments of stem into a chafing dish. Their faces were blank. Whatever they thought about her outburst was tucked away tightly .
She hadn’t even known they were in the room.
Shame pierced her. Not for breaking the flowers, but for forgetting the men standing in the corners.
Exactly as Halverton had trained her to do.
Cormac had warned her. She hadn’t listened.
Aoife pushed herself up so quickly that James startled. “I’m sorry,” she said, breath trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
She grabbed a handful of petals. Kit reached out to take them gently from her hands.
“It’s all right, miss. We’ll clean up,” he said.
She reached for more, but James’s hand closed over hers.
“It’s all right,” he repeated, meeting her eyes.
Aoife let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Both of you.”
She fled before her composure cracked again.
The walls pressed in, the halls too tight. She couldn’t go to her room. Her room was filled with nothing of hers but a secret drawer and memories she’d packed away. She needed open skies.
She rushed to the front door, yanked it open. A stiff wind slapped her face, sharp enough to sting. She stepped outside anyway.
The storm air tasted of iron.
She stepped onto the landing, hands gripping the balustrade.
Why hadn’t she bitten her tongue sooner? She was finally making progress. Would he even consider her suggestion now?
Across the manicured lawns, the hawthorn tree peeked from behind sculpted hedges, its branches shivering in the rising wind.
Maybe Cormac had been right.
Maybe she should have run with him.
Maybe she still should.
The Sheedar weren’t lifting a finger.
Maybe faith was the trap all along.
Aoife swallowed hard, fury twisting up her throat.
She made her decision.
She was leaving.
A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky as if in answer.
Aoife screamed into the night sky. It was snatched away by the wind, anger vented all the same.
She ran down the steps, storm air whipping her skirts around her legs. Thunder cracked overhead, not distant now but directly above the manor, as if the sky itself had turned its attention on her.
She hit the grass at a sprint. Rain hammered down in blinding sheets, drenching her within seconds. Still she pushed forward, breath tearing in her throat, eyes fixed on the gate, the edge of Halverton’s world, and the beginning of her freedom.
A low rumble shuddered through the ground.
She didn’t slow.
Another flash split the sky. A white-hot spear of light slammed into the path ahead.