Chapter 22 #2
Down the corridor, behind a closed door, a hearth poker clattered as it was replaced against the marble.
Aoife sat still, her wrist strangely bare, as if a part of her had been scraped away.
She kept her hands folded in her lap to hide their trembling.
The bracelet lay behind that closed door, burnt to ash.
Cormac had tied it for her only weeks ago.
The memory of his fingers brushing her skin hit her with unexpected force, sharp as a bruise.
Her father must have seen the pain in her face because he spoke quickly, leaning forward with exaggerated interest.
“Ah—Aoife, did you hear about the gossip from the village?” he said, loud enough to drown the echo of metal she knew he’d heard too. “Old Fergal swears he saw a black hound near the crossroads yesterday.”
Aoife let out a tight breath, grateful for his clumsy kindness, grateful not to be asked how she felt or whether she was all right. “Did it bark?” she asked.
“Only once before Fergal turned tail and ran,” her father went on, warming to the distraction.
She nodded, even though her throat was tight. She focused on his voice, not on the hollow ache circling her wrist.
Maire was practically bouncing in her seat. “What does it mean?”
Aoife’s smile faltered. It was a distraction for a moment, but it was another death omen. Another reminder that they were all headed for the same fate this winter if nothing changed.
Her father hesitated.
“It means there’s going to be a storm.” Aoife said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Eoin objected. “If you hear a fairy hound bark three times, your heart stops.” He said, relishing the telling.
Halverton entered while he was speaking. He laughed when Eoin finished, a low, amused chuckle that made her skin prickle. “What tall tales you have been told.”
Eoin straightened. “They’re not tales. I heard it from an adult, so it must be true.”
Halverton crouched slightly to meet his eyes. “You should not believe everything an adult tells you.”
Eoin frowned. “Then why should I believe you?”
Halverton blinked, caught off guard. “Touché,” he murmured.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Straightening, he crossed the room to the bookcase and pulled out a slim volume bound in green leather. “Superstitions of Inis Morra,” he read aloud, then held it out to the boy. “You can read?”
“Yes, sir,” Eoin said, taking it reverently.
“That will set you straight.”
Aoife’s stomach tightened. She glanced at her father, silently willing him to intervene, but he gave the smallest shake of his head.
“That’s kind of you, sir,” he said instead.
She forced herself to smile, her teeth aching with the effort. “Yes. Thank you.”
“It is nothing.” Halverton waved a hand, looking pleased with himself.
He returned to the sofa, draping his arm across it, his fingers close enough to brush her shoulder.
The gift meant nothing to him; it was a trinket, a spur-of-the-moment decision.
But to Eoin, who cradled it in both hands, it looked like treasure.
Conversation resumed, her father steering it carefully to safe ground.
There was talk of neighbours, of the weather, of a wedding that might never happen.
Nothing that might upset Lord Halverton, no talk of the food or lack thereof, no talk of the hunger that occupied every waking hour.
But it was there, beneath every smile, behind every story.
Aoife could see it, even if Lord Halverton couldn’t.
It didn’t take long for the conversation to dry up, and with Lord Halverton present she couldn’t ask all the things she wanted to. She could only hope they’d be allowed to come again.
When they stood to leave, relief flickered across her father’s face. He hugged her tightly.
“You always were stronger than I am,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”
She clung to him a heartbeat longer, unwilling to let go.
She crouched to hug her siblings as Lord Halverton offered her father a polite smile.
“You see how well she is doing here?” he said lightly, as though complimenting a horse he’d broken. “When I found her, she was little better than a wild thing.”
Her father stiffened, the smallest tightening in his shoulders. He said nothing.
Halverton warmed to the topic.
“And you must be relieved to have one less mouth to feed,” he added. “If more of your people showed restraint, you would not be in such a state.” He gave a soft, patronising laugh. “Breeding like rabbits has consequences.”
Eoin’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
Her father inhaled sharply, trying to swallow the insult. His fists didn’t clench yet, but his fingers curled as though testing how much he could bear.
Halverton stepped closer, studying him with idle curiosity.
“You and your wife were sensible at least; only three children.”
A muscle twitched in her father’s jaw.
Halverton’s smile sharpened. He had found the bruise and pressed it.
“Ah. No. Not three. There were more, were there not? And now they are gone. Which rather proves my point: Morrans produce more children than they can keep alive.”
Her father’s breath left him in a shudder. His voice, when it came, was a low, controlled growl.
“Do not speak of my children.”
Halverton’s smile remained. “I speak of simple arithmetic. Your older children might be alive today if you had not continued to reproduce past your capability to provide.”
“You pompous, heartless bastard!” her father erupted, voice cracking loud enough to startle Maire.
Halverton turned his head slightly, regarding him the way one might regard an aggressive dog.
“You will lower your voice.”
Her father stepped closer. “Do not speak of things you do not understand.”
Halverton’s smile sharpened. “I will speak on whatever topic I please.”
Her father trembled with rage, Halverton growing colder. She knew what would come next. She moved quickly, stepping between them before her father could say another word.
“Stop,” she said.
Halverton’s eyes snapped to her.
The entrance hall contracted, shrinking to just Halverton and her.
For a full heartbeat, he said nothing, only stared at her. Every lesson he’d pressed upon her these past weeks reflected back at him in this single act of defiance.
He had boasted of how well he had trained her.
Of how well he had shaped her to be a lady.
And here she was, publicly contradicting him, taking the side of a man who dared challenge him.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Aoife.”
Her name landed like a warning.
“You will step aside.”
“No.” Her voice trembled, but held. “He’s done nothing wrong.”
Halverton’s eyes darkened in a way she’d never seen before, the danger of disobedience more real than ever.
He moved before her father could speak again.
He struck her.
There was no hesitation in the motion, no stumble, no accident. His hand cut across her cheek with the solid, deliberate force of a man delivering correction, not losing control.
Pain exploded white-hot. The ground lurched. She hit the floor, Maire’s scream piercing the ringing in her ears.
Her father fell to his knees beside her, horror flooding his face.
“Aoife—Aoife, love—”
Halverton stood above them, breathing hard once through his nose, the only crack in his composure. He crossed the hall, threw open the doors, and bellowed. “Soldiers!”
A moment later, soldiers clattered into the hall.
“Remove them!”
“Please,” Aoife gasped as the soldiers grabbed her father. “Don’t hurt him!”
“But he hurt you,” Halverton said, twisting the truth, trying to make her doubt what she knew.
Aoife searched for a face she knew amongst the soldiers. Her eyes met Lugh’s. “Please”
“Throw them out. They’re never welcome here again,” Halverton barked.
Lugh moved quickly, the first to reach her siblings; he ushered them out without laying a hand on them.
Maire cried as they were moved toward the door. Eoin glared up at Halverton, then hurled the book to the floor. It struck the marble with a hollow slap.
When the door slammed shut, silence fell.
Aoife stayed where she was, the hit still burning her face. Halverton loomed over her, his voice low and trembling with fury. “No one speaks to me like that,” his voice was ice.
Then he turned and stormed out.