Page 75 of Irish Brute

We could review her lessons for the week—if I had the slightest notion what John Bell taught her before taking his Friday half-day and heading out for the weekend.

In the end, we draw pictures. It’s a strange pastime, one more suited to a younger girl than Aiofe. I’m not an expert on children, but everything about Braiden’s ward seems suspended in time. When she’s not dressed like a schoolgirl, she looks like Alice in Wonderland, clean starched dresses with sparkling white pinafores. She keeps a stuffed rabbit close at hand, even though most children her age are ashamed of their childish toys. She doesn’t have a computer, doesn’t have a phone, and I’ve never seen her play a video game.

But she draws a lot better than I do. My first attempt at a cat looks like a pregnant toaster, and my version of a pony resembles roadkill. I save face by blaming it on my aching shoulder.

Aiofe accepts my excuse with a serene smile. At my urging, she takes the colored pencils and starts to sketch. In seconds, she’s created the clear image of a country church. It has stone walls and a steep roof. The steeple is topped by a tiny cross that matches the one hanging around her throat.

I’m reminded of the children’s finger-game and rhyme — “Here’s the church and here’s the steeple; open the door, and see all the people.” My arm’s too sore to act it out, though. And, young as she might behave at times, Aiofe is ten years old, not four.

She turns the page in her sketchbook and starts on another drawing. At first, I think this one is a princess—it’s a girl in a long flowing dress. But the dress stays white and Aiofe sketches in a bouquet of flowers. I wait for her to add a veil before I ask, “She’s a bride?”

Aiofe looks at me with a disdain that spans multiple languages.

Next, she draws a stuffed rabbit, with a surprisingly convincing folded-down ear.

And she’s starting in on a horse-cart, one with high wheels and a seat wide enough for two, when the nursery door opens.

Braiden looks tired. His hair stands on end; he’s been running his fingers through it again. He found time to get a new shirt, and someone has wrapped gauze around his palm.

I resist the urge to comment on our twin bandages. I figure that might upset Aiofe.

“Go downstairs,” Braiden tells her. “Fairfax has tea for you in the kitchen.”

She obeys, wordless as ever.

Braiden crosses the room and scowls at the cart she’s drawn, a frown that only deepens as he flips back through the rest of her art.

“She’s got a lot of skill,” I say.

“She’s got a lot of practice.” He ruffles his thumb over the already-filled pages of the book. The sheets move quickly, but I see a dozen churches, even more brides, and enough bunnies to populate a small country.

“What—” I start to ask, but Braiden closes the book. He rubs the space between his eyebrows with both two fingers as if he has a headache.

“Grace Poole started the fire,” he says.

“Grace!” That makes no sense. “Why would Grace trap you in your office? Where did she get the candles? Why would Grace?—”

“She drinks.”

“I know she drinks,” I say, annoyed because that doesn’t begin to answer my questions. “I’ve smelled it on her.”

“Give her half a chance, and she’ll be jarred by noon.”

“But that doesn’t explain?—”

“Fairfax saw her take candles from the pantry.”

I don’t like Grace. Her flat affect jars me every time I see her, and I can barely understand a word she says. But I never had her pegged for an arsonist.

“I didn’t hear the police come,” I say.

“There will be no police.”

“You’re just letting her walk away?”

“She won’t be going anywhere.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying. “Braiden, she tried to murder you!”