Page 24 of Irish Vice

“Enough!” I shout. “You’re supposed to be watching a fragile woman who’s roaming outside for the first time in years. You came in here without permission. You lied about why you were here. You stole liquor and now you’re drunk and you’re arguing to cover up the fact that you’ve endangered the life of a child.”

With every statement I make, Grace shrinks a little more. Her shoulders slump. Her chin digs into her chest. Her fingers curl into talons, clutching the only thing she cares about: Her flask.

Her weakness make me furious. I want to scratch her sullen face. I want to rip out her dull, matted hair.

If Grace had done her job properly, Birte would never have appeared in the dining room. I never would have discovered Braiden’s lies.

A tiny voice of reason whispers in the back of my mind: I should be grateful I found out now. Because of Grace, it’s not too late.

Too late for what?I just want to stop hurting.

“I’m going to Braiden right now,” I say. “I’m telling him to fire you.”

“Ma’am!”

“I want you out of here tonight.”

She starts to sob, a terrible sound, like pigeons boiling in a pot. “Ma’am,” she chokes out.

“On the next flight to Dublin,” I say.

She sinks to her knees. Grabbing the hem of my pants, she pleads in an unholy mixture of English and Irish. I stagger back, trying to escape the clutch of her fingers. I stumble, though, because someone’s standing behind me.

It’s Aiofe.

She’s wearing her puffy purple coat with the bright pink zipper—security against the occasional gust of March wind. Her hair is woven into two braids, with soft curls escaping at her temples and the nape of her neck. Her eyes are bright, almost feverish.

She gapes at Grace in shock. Her lower lip starts to tremble and two fat tears trickle down her cheeks.

Grace clambers to her feet. She drags the back of one hand across her face, scraping away tears and snot. With the other, she shoves her flask deep in her apron pocket.

“Hey ho, wean,” she says, shaky on the first two words, but smiling by the third.

Aiofe looks from Grace to me and back again. Her forehead puckers in confusion.

“Don’t ya worry, lass,” Grace says, patting her shoulder. “Herself and me, we was jus’ talkin’. Not t’ fear, wee one. Ya got nothin’ t’ fear.”

Aiofe nods as if she’s finished adding up a massive column of numbers. Her smile, when she manages one, is like the sun coming out from behind a bank of clouds.

As I watch, astonished by the transition, she unzips her jacket. Nestled inside, crushed against her dark blue cable-knitsweater, are a dozen flowers—tulips in pastel shades of pink and yellow and lavender.

I stare at the miniature turbans of the flowers’ tight-wrapped petals. Aiofe gathers them together and shoves them toward my hand. When I still don’t understand, she moves them from her heart to mine.

“They’re for me?” I ask.

She nods, as seriously as if she’s passing me a Nobel prize. She points toward my duvet cover, with its stylized tulips woven between banks of honeysuckle.

“Thank you,” I say. “They’re beautiful.”

Aiofe’s smile turns shy. She ducks her head and looks up at Grace through her lashes.

“I tol’ ya,” Grace says to her. “Posies make a house a home. The missus knows that, same as anyone. G’wan now. Put ’em in water, ’afore they wilt.” She points toward the highball glasses next to the liquor bottles.

Obediently, Aiofe takes one and holds it under the faucet until it’s half full. She sets the stems in the water carefully, like they’re made out of spun sugar and might shatter. Biting her lip, she takes her time arranging them, moving the colors around to make a secret pattern.

When she’s finally finished, she looks at Grace, her wide eyes clearly seeking approval.

Grace nods. “That’s savage, lass.”