“Every Sunday. Howth. My mother’s house. My uncle still works the old dock repair yard near the harbor. My sister teaches at St. Brigid’s primary. We eat at one table. No business. No guards inside.”
She absorbs that. “Okay.”
I lean down to kiss her mouth again. When I pull back, I study her face.
There’s still something there. Something she’s holding back. “Don’t make me regret this,” I say quietly.
She runs her thumb along my collarbone and her lower lip quivers a little. “I’m going to do my very best to try.”
10
SAOIRSE
Iclose his door behind me and walk down the corridor without looking back, my legs steady even though my body still sings from him. The house is quiet at this hour, the guards stationed where they always are, the lights low and warm against the dark wood. I keep my expression neutral until I reach my room, then I slip inside and lock the door with a soft click.
I cross the room calmly, slip off my shoes, and walk straight to the tall bookshelf against the far wall.
It looks ordinary. Paperbacks. A few hardcovers. Some files I actually use. But three shelves up, tucked behind a thick history volume no one here would bother pulling, there’s a narrow gap carved into the wood paneling. I slide the book out carefully.
The vibration drones faintly from behind it. I reach into the hollow space and retrieve the phone, small and black and completely separate from the life I just walked back from.
It doesn’t stop vibrating, and the screen lights my face in the dim. Six missed calls. Three messages.
Call me.
Now.
Answer your phone.
I exhale slowly and press call before I can think too hard about what that tone does to me.
He answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been?” Father’s voice is calm, which is worse than anger.
“Busy,” I say, setting the phone on speaker and pulling my hair back into a loose tie. My reflection in the mirror looks flushed and satisfied, and I hate that I don’t look ashamed.
“Busy doing what?” he asks.
“Working.”
There’s a pause, then a faint sound in the background like he’s pacing across marble. I sit on the edge of the bed and cross one leg over the other.
“You don’t ignore me,” he says quietly.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You were in his bed.”
It’s not a question.
I lean back on my hands and stare at the ceiling. “Yes.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Good,” he says.
The word lands strangely in my chest.