“You’re overthinking the seating,” Maeve says to me when I pass her.
“I’m not thinking about seating.”
“That’s worse,” she replies and straightens my collar without asking.
Guests begin arriving in measured intervals, names checked at the outer gate even though we all know them by heart. My mother insisted on invitations printed and delivered by hand, and every one of them contained the same instructions about timing and discretion. Patrick’s watchers have had weeks to note the pattern.
Declan steps closer as the last of the cars settle into place. “North ridge clear. Marine unit in position beyond the break. Road team rotated twenty minutes ago.”
“Keep the outer cordon relaxed,” I tell him quietly. “Let it look soft.”
He nods once. “It does.”
Inside, the officiant stands near the altar reviewing his notes even though we met with him twice and he knows exactly what he’s to say and what he’s not. He’s a family priest who has buried our dead and baptized our children, and he greets me with a look that carries both blessing and warning.
“You certain about today?” he asks under his breath.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a second longer, then nods.
The doors at the front open, and conversation shifts as Saoirse steps inside on my mother’s arm.
She isn’t wearing anything extravagant. The dress is simple, long-sleeved, fitted to accommodate the curve she no longerhides, ivory against her skin, her hair pinned back in a way that keeps it clear of her face. There is a thin chain at her throat and nothing else.
Maeve inhales sharply beside me. “Well done, Brother.”
I don’t answer. I watch her walk toward me with steady steps, and I see the calculation in her eyes even now as she takes in the room, counts exits, measures distances. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks ready.
When she reaches me, my mother presses her hand into mine and kisses her cheek. “You’re family now,” she says quietly and steps away.
“You look calm,” Saoirse murmurs once we’re facing each other.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
The priest begins, his voice carrying through the small chapel without strain. He speaks about commitment and witness and responsibility, and I listen while also tracking the subtle shifts at the doors, the slight repositioning of Conall’s men, the flicker of a phone screen near the back as Declan checks a feed.
We exchanged vows privately three nights ago in my office with only my mother present, words we needed to say without anyone watching. Today is performance and declaration and bait.
When it’s my turn, I take her hands fully.
“I won’t send you away again,” I say, and the words are simple and direct. “I won’t mistake anger for clarity. I won’t let you carry war alone.”
Her grip tightens.
“And I won’t stand in shadows when you’re fighting in the open,” she answers. “I won’t disappear into silence. I won’t build distance out of fear.”
There are no tears. No dramatics. Only agreement.
The priest nods once, satisfied, and moves through the formalities while outside, a gull cuts across the sky and the tide shifts below the cliff.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Yes,” she says.