Chapter 62
Sixty-Two
Ansel
Islipped out while the others resumed eating and cornered Irene in the hall.
“Glen, go sit with the others,” I instructed.
A brief moment of eye contact, a quick nod, and Glen was gone. We’d spent enough decades working together to easily communicate without words.
“You thinking of hurting my girl?” I asked, backing Irene against a closed doorway.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Irene replied, still scowling.
“You called her a bitch earlier,” I said, “so excuse me for worrying.”
“I don’t like my work going to waste.” Irene straightened up and glared at me. “And I’m none too pleased about how Finn died.”
“And so if she’s dissatisfied with how you settle the cottage for them?
If she’s fussy about her new kitchen maid?
If she wants you to do something seemingly inconsequential like asking around to find the friendliest sheep on the island and then purchase it for her?
” I asked. “Will you shout at her again then? Say she’s a spoiled royal child? ”
“If she’s being unreasonable then I—” Irene began, but I didn’t let her finish.
“You will do no such thing.” My voice was so low it resonated in the walls.
“Because I do not care about your opinions. I do not care about your self-aggrandizing home-keeping standards. I don’t care that you get prickly when you feel your effort isn’t being appreciated.
I care that she spent the last two decades isolated from everyone because Cormac couldn’t deal with his own grief.
I care that she’s spent the last six months puking her guts out and fighting hundred-and-five-degree fevers while on the road.
I care that the entire future of the Outer Court—and therefore of humanity’s relationship with the supernatural—is now resting on a scared twenty-seven-year-old girl who talks to cats and barely knows how to throw a punch.
And if you say so much as one harsh word toward her you will never set foot on this island again. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Faelen,” Irene replied. “Whatever you say, Mr. O’Faelen.”