Page 25 of Irish Vice

Aiofe grins again, pride puffing her narrow chest. She hands me the glass with two hands, bowing a little in her excitement at presenting her gift.

“They’re perfect,” I say. I set the flowers on top of the microwave, where they can be seen from every point in the room.

When we’re all through admiring them, Grace says to Aiofe, “Now where’s yer Auntie Birte?”

Aiofe moves her hand in a waving pattern, shifting from side to side like a salmon swimming upstream. I don’t need words tounderstand that Birte’s in the greenhouse, watching koi in the Irish garden fish pond.

“Shall we get her, then? Bring her back t’ th’ house fer a cuppa ’n’ one o’ Fairfax’s biscuits?”

Aiofe shakes her head fiercely, then holds up two fingers.

“Two biscuits?” Grace asks. “Have ya been good enow fer two?”

Aiofe points emphatically to my flowers.

“A gift fer th’ missus. Yer right. Ya should get two biscuits fer that.”

Aiofe heads for the doorway, but Grace calls her back. The woman reaches for the pink zipper and slides it up to the top of the purple jacket.

“Don’t want ya catchin’ yer death o’ cold,” she says, even though it’s pleasantly warm in the sun.

“Aiofe,” I say, just before she steps outside. “Thank you again. The flowers are lovely.” She nods and slips her hand companionably into Grace’s.

Before they can leave, I call out, “Grace?”

The woman stops in the doorway without turning to face me.

“Forget what I said earlier. You can stay. Keep an eye on Aiofe and Birte, both.”

Something unhitches in her shoulders, and she takes a step forward.

But I call out again: “Grace? Leave the flask behind.”

For a moment, I think she won’t do it. But then she reaches into her apron with her free hand, the one Aiofe hasn’t caught. She fishes out the flask and stoops to set it on the threshold before she lets Aiofe drag her into the sunshine.

I don’t trust Grace Poole. She’s a drinking alcoholic who’s overmatched by her job.

But as I pour the vodka down the drain, I have to admit that Aiofe loves her. Aiofeneedsher. And if there’s anything I can do to ease that poor child’s life, I’ll do it. No more questions asked.

10

BRAIDEN

Tuesday morning, Fiona steps in front of the Jeep as I take the wide turn from the garage toward Thornfield’s front gate. She has a greater confidence in mechanical braking than I have, or maybe she trusts her father will string me up by my thumbs if I don’t stop in time.

Climbing in on the passenger side, she asks, “Where to?”

“You’regoing back to the house. I’m making the milk run.”

“Your Fairfax doesn’t keep your pantry stocked?”

I can’t tell if she’s yanking my chain, or if she really doesn’t understand. “I make the round for collections once a month. Keep my eye on the business. Make sure no one forgets me.”

She gives me a crafty side-eye. “No one’s forgettingyouanytime soon.”

She might be flirting under orders from her da, or maybe she’s really interested in having a go. But I’ve already got two women wearing my wedding bands, and I’m not looking to add another. “Go on then,” I tell her. “Back in the house.”

“I’m coming with you.”