Chapter 16
Earth exploded.
Aoife screamed and skidded to a halt so violently that she fell to her knees. Heat rolled over her face. The air stank of burning peat. A smoking gouge carved across the path where she’d meant to run.
Not the weather. A warning.
Her heart lurched painfully. Her legs trembled.
The Sheedar were watching.
And their message was clear: Do not break your oath.
She tried to rise. Her body refused. Fear pinned her in place, cold and absolute, sinking into her bones like ice.
If she kept going, the next bolt might not aim for the ground.
“Fine!” she shouted, voice ragged, swallowed by rain. “Fine! I’m going back! Is that what you want? Are you satisfied now?”
The storm answered immediately; the rain softening unnaturally, falling in a soft mist. The world went eerily still, except for the hiss of smoking earth.
Aoife let out a harsh, frustrated sound. “I hear you,” she shouted into the rain. “I hear you.”
Belief, which had faltered moments ago, now surged back, sharp as a blade.
The Sheedar were real.
They were watching.
And they would make her keep her word, whether she wanted to or not.
She rose to her feet on unsteady legs. The path ahead still steamed, blackened and ruined.
She turned toward the house, soaked and shaking, each step heavier than the last.
The Sheedar didn’t need walls to keep her here. They had storms and fog, illusions and endless tricks.
They had fear.
And tonight, they’d reminded her exactly what that meant.
She imagined them laughing as she trudged toward the house, water streaming from her hair and sleeves, her boots squelching in the mud.
She approached the house, light spilling out through the open doors.
A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.
Halverton stared out, assessing the storm.
As she watched, he walked into the house and closed the door.
A smile spread over her face, happiness at the misfortune of another.
At least he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of his ride tonight.
Unwilling to let Halverton know she’d tried to leave, she slipped through the archway in the wall that led to the servants’ entrance and into the house.
The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a single wall lamp left burning for the staff who would still be at work long after she was asleep. Aoife closed the door softly behind her, wincing as the latch slid into place with a thud.
“It’s a bit wet for an evening stroll, miss.”
Aoife jerked violently, spinning. Mrs Harrow stood at the foot of the narrow stair, a folded apron in her hands. Her expression was unreadable, neither shocked nor reproachful, simply… knowing.
“I—” Aoife swallowed. Her hair dripped onto the flagstones. “I wasn’t—”
Mrs Harrow lifted one hand, stopping her. “No explanation is needed.” Her voice was gentle, but not soft. “There are nights in this house when anyone with sense considers running.” She paused, eyes narrowing as they swept over Aoife’s soaked gown, the mud on her hem.
Aoife’s heart thudded hard.
Mrs Harrow tucked the apron under her arm.
“I’ve no interest in telling Lord Halverton where you have or haven’t been.
My job is to keep the house in order, not report every soul who wanders.
” A faint, dry smile flickered. “And between us… if I’d thought there was any real road out, I might’ve taken it myself. ”
It was said lightly, almost like a joke, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable.
Aoife opened her mouth, but Mrs Harrow gently steered her down the corridor with a small tilt of her head.
“Go on now. Get to your room before anyone else sees you dripping on the floor.”
Aoife hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”
Mrs Harrow regarded her for a long moment, a decision forming behind the woman’s eyes.
“I think you could be good for him, for us, this house. I won’t ruin it because of one moment’s foolishness.”
Aoife wasn’t sure what to make of her answer.
***
The storm did not calm that night so much as sink deeper into the walls of the house. Rain hammered the shutters. The wind clawed at them like fingers. Aoife drifted uneasily in and out of sleep, blankets pulled to her chin.
Close by, a scream tore through the night.
For a heartbeat, she froze.
It wasn’t a banshee.
It was a man.
Aoife threw the covers off and pulled on her nightgown. The stone floor was icy beneath her bare feet as she hurried into the corridor, following the sound. Shadows flickered with each flash of lightning, her own shape jittering along the walls.
The cries led her to Halverton’s door.
She stopped.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob.
Should she go in?
Would he want her to? Or would he twist her concern into something she hadn’t meant?
The screaming intensified, stuttered, and became muffled as though trapped behind fabric.
Aoife’s fingers curled around the cold brass handle.
Before she could turn it, footsteps came fast down the corridor.
Alton rounded the corner at a near-run, coat half-buttoned in haste. Mrs Harrow followed, her expression tight but controlled.
Aoife took a step back automatically.
Alton didn’t even pause. He slipped past her and into the room, closing the door behind him.
Mrs Harrow placed a steadying hand on Aoife’s arm. “Don’t fret, miss.”
“What’s wrong?” Aoife whispered. “Is he hurt? I can help—if he’s hurt, I can—”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” Mrs Harrow said gently. “Only nightmares. They pass.”
Aoife swallowed. “He sounded—”
“Nightmares,” Mrs Harrow repeated, firmer now. “They aren’t your concern. Back to bed, miss.”
Aoife hesitated. Halverton’s hoarse, muffled, broken cry carried through the cracked door.
Mrs Harrow followed her gaze. “Go on.” She coaxed Aoife. “You’ll only make it worse if he realises he’s been overheard.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she walked toward her room.
At the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.
Mrs Harrow had entered the room as well and, with a soft click, shut the door fully behind her.
She couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
The storm battered against the windows, wind rattling the panes, rain lashing the glass in uneven bursts. Aoife lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, Halverton’s words circling in her mind.
‘If I hadn’t, they would have increased my quota.’
‘Exports are necessary.’
‘You’re too young and too naive.’
She turned onto her side, pulling the blankets tighter around her, but it did nothing to quiet the unease.
What if he were right?
The thought came reluctantly, but once it had taken hold, she couldn’t shake it.
He had the numbers. The figures. He understood how the system worked in a way she didn’t. There were likely pressures beyond the estate, demands from people she would never meet, consequences she couldn’t fully grasp.
Cormac had said as much, in his own way.
That she could be naive. That she saw the world as she wanted it to be, not as it was.
Aoife pressed her lips together. Maybe she did.
Maybe there were forces at play she didn’t understand.
Maybe the quotas had to be met. Maybe there were reasons, practical, unavoidable reasons, that meant not everyone could be fed.
She pictured the thin faces of the villagers. The way a mother would push her portion toward her child and claim she wasn’t hungry.
Even if he was right about the system, about quotas, about exports, about the pressures from beyond the estate, what did that matter if the result was the same?
People were starving.
People were dying.
And it could be prevented.
She closed her eyes, her hands curling into the blankets. She might be naive, but there was no excuse in the world that could justify letting people die of starvation when it could so easily be prevented.
The storm had blown itself out by dawn. The lawns glittered with puddles that reflected a pale sky, and the air smelled of wet earth.
Aoife was still pulling herself upright when a soft knock came at her door.
“Come in,” Aoife called, expecting Clara.
But it was Mrs Harrow who stepped inside carrying a basin of steaming water.
“I thought I’d see to you myself today,” Mrs Harrow said before Aoife could ask. “Clara’s gone to help in the laundry. Stormy nights leave a great deal of work behind.”
Aoife nodded, though the housekeeper’s tone suggested this was only partly true.
Mrs Harrow set the basin on the small table by the window. “Come now, wash your face. You look like you hardly slept.”
Aoife obeyed. The wet cloth warmed her chilled skin. When she glanced sideways, she caught Mrs Harrow studying her with an assessing, almost wary tenderness.
“About last night—”
Mrs Harrow lifted a dress from the wardrobe. “Nightmares visit many in this house, miss. They’re no business of anyone but the one who carries them.” Her voice softened, but the boundary in it was firm.
“Was it the storm? Thunder gives my sister nightmares.” Aoife’s chest tightened thinking of Maire. The storm was sure to have been just as bad down in the village, and for the first time in her sister’s life, Aoife wasn’t there to comfort her.
“Some stories aren’t mine to tell,” Mrs Harrow replied.
Aoife swallowed the questions rising in her throat.
Mrs Harrow moved behind her, lifting the gown over Aoife’s head and settling it over her shoulders. As she fastened the back, her hands paused.
When Aoife turned her head, Mrs Harrow’s expression was unreadable.
“Miss Aoife,” she said. “If you ever feel… if you want to…” She trailed off, still searching for the right words. “If you feel an urge to escape, come to me.”
The words seemed disconnected from the conversation they were having, weighted with history Aoife did not yet understand.
“Come to me first, all right?” Mrs Harrow was serious as she said it.
Did the staff know about her oath? It didn’t seem so. If they did, Mrs Harrow wouldn’t worry about her trying to run away.
“I will. Thank you.”
Mrs Harrow drew in a slow breath and turned away before Aoife could ask anything else.
“Come along then,” she said softly. “Breakfast won’t wait.”
***
Breakfast was set precisely as ever.