Page 13 of Irish Vice

I don’t trust a word she says.

So for five full minutes, the only sound in the dining room is the scrape of silverware on plates. All six of us eat like we’re training for the Olympic gold medal in Family Meal.

No one looks up from Fairfax’s feast. I try to ignore the itch of my bandaged wound, pulled tight by the flex of my fingers. The more I try to forget the ache of the scar that frames it, the more my flesh burns.

Fiona fortifies herself with a massive gulp of Bordeaux before she finally says, “My, what lovely weather we’re having lately.”

Madden snorts as he forks a huge bite of lamb past his lips. The sound comes out liquid and clogged, and I realize his nose is swollen. It wasn’t that way when he arrived this afternoon, answering my summons when I realized there’s no way I can ship Fiona back to Ingram. Not yet, anyway.

“What happened to you,deartháir?” I ask.

He scowls, as if my calling him brother is an insult. “Walked into a wall,” he mutters, savaging a roasted potato with his fork.

Aiofe giggles until Madden glares at her. I tap my knife to put him back where he belongs. He pours half a bottle of wine into his glass, but he keeps his mouth shut.

I can’t remember ever hearing Aiofe laugh before. Her color is high. She’s eating her vegetables without my reminding her. I don’t know what’s set her right—having Samantha back after five weeks of separation, eating with her auntie at her side, or basking in the novelty of Fiona’s cool stare from the foot of the table.

We pass another few minutes in silence before Fiona tries again. “Are the rumors true about that heroin bust? Did the police really pick up three of your corner men?”

I attempt to incinerate her face with my stare. “We do not discuss business at the dinner table,” I say.

“At the table,” Birte repeats. “On the cable. In the stable.”

Aiofe beams at her, as if Birte just recited one of Yeats’ finest poems.

“Fairfax!” I holler. When he glides in from the kitchen, I plead, “Have you made us a sweet?”

He carries in an enormous trifle, soaked in enough sherrythat I can smell it from the doorway. The dessert proves entertainment enough to carry us to the end of our tortured meal. I can’t help but notice Samantha’s barely touched her food—dinner or dessert. My own appetite died with the first endless silence.

As Fairfax starts to clear the plates, Fiona looks out the window. “Anyone care for a stroll?” she asks. “I haven’t seen the grounds yet.”

“Of course you haven’t,” I growl. She spent the entire afternoon shadowing me.

Madden stands to accompany her, saying, “He onlysoundslike a bear with a sore paw.”

“I don’t know,” Fiona says, looking over her shoulder. “Those teeth he’s grinding look rather bearish to me.”

They laugh and head toward the mudroom. I trust Madden will get her a coat so she doesn’t freeze her arse off, first night on my watch. Then again, maybe she’ll go back to Boston under her own power if she suffers a little frostbite.

Birte is humming to herself, pleating and unpleating the napkin in her lap. I turn to Aiofe. “You’ve got half an hour before bed. Why don’t you show Auntie Birte the nursery?”

Aiofe beams, taking a willing Birte’s hand and leading her toward the stairs.

That leaves Samantha and me. Exactly as I planned.

“That wall Madden walked into,” I say. “Is it a problem?”

I see her start to lie, to tell me all is grand. I know how to read every line of her body. But this time she chooses the truth. Or something close to it. “I’ve got it under control. For now.”

I want to tell her she’s safe here.

I want to tell her I’ve killed for her once, and I’ll do it again, once my runners track down whoever sent the man to the freeport.

I want to tell her I hate having kept Birte a secret, that I should have told her the truth when I gave her my ring, the day I asked her to marry me.

I want to tell her I’m sorry.

Instead, I say, “You left something in the bedroom upstairs. Come fetch it before you go back to the pool house.”