Page 36 of Irish Vice

I take a sip of my steaming tea. It looks like a melted jewel, but it tastes revolting.

I look up to find Fairfax staring at me expectantly. I shake my head, just a little. “Nope,” I say. “Still tastes like dirt.”

He shrugs. “Can’t blame a lad for trying.”

Lad.

He’s not talking about himself. He’s talking about Braiden. He’s asking if I can make room in my heart for a man with good intentions.

The collar is heavy in my pocket. I could get so far… I could build such a new life…

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say. “You might find a tea I’ll drink tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the one after that.”

“Himself will be pleased you’re trying.”

“I’m not doing it for Braiden.”

I’m doing it for me. For me, and for Aiofe, who’s eyeingmyginger cake, having polished off her own.

“Of course not,” Fairfax agrees. Then he says to Aiofe, “Half an hour now. I’ll be back.”

I return the collar to its velvet case before I sneak back to the pool house.

14

BRAIDEN

Samantha follows my rules to the letter.

She’s at breakfast Saturday morning, even though she’s clearly nursing a headache and a dodgy stomach. Fiona doesn’t make it at all, which is just as well, given Birte’s decision to recite her rosary at the table, increasing her volume with each repetition.

I’m not sure why Birte thinks she needs Mary’s intervention. Maybe it’s Father Regis’s influence. The priest has been round to talk with her three times already.

By the time Birte reaches her third decade on the beads, my own head is pounding. I push back from the table and lock myself in my office for the rest of the day.

I owe Samantha an apology. Not for Fiona kissing me—that was nothing I asked for and nothing I gave back.

But I do regret the limerick I tossed off. I honestly meant to save her from the boys’ scrutiny. I figured I’d recite a poem, andthe game would be over. I forgot my bride wasn’t raised around a bunch of braying jackeens, as I was.

Sunday morning’s the same. Coffee for Samantha and tea for the rest of us. It’s Fairfax’s well-deserved day off so I man the stove, but Aiofe’s the only taker. I make her usual—one egg sunny side up and toast soldiers.

Samantha sticks with coffee and cold cereal. Fiona can’t still be hung over from Friday night, but from the green tinge to her face, she clearly celebrated her Limerick Queen status last night as well. I’m not sure which of my men was fool enough to join her. Now, she’s nursing a cup of coffee and eyeing my omelet as if it’s a tripwire ready to send her sprawling.

Aiofe eats the white of her egg in tiny bites, edging closer and closer to the yolk with the tines of her fork. When she’s left with only the center, she stabs it with her toast.

Yolk oozes over the plate like bright yellow blood. Fiona sprints for the jacks. Aiofe giggles and finishes her meal, unrepentant even when I tell her she’s a fiend.

Samantha waits wordlessly for me to finish eating, then heads back to the pool house.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve had enough. She’s had a chance to lick her wounds. Time to kiss and make up.

A new lock gleams on the pool house door.

I could grab a chair from the deck and crash through one of the windows. Kick in the door with a few well-placed blows. Stand outside and ring her phone until she gets sick of the noise or blocks me.

Instead, I sulk in my office for the rest of the day. I send a text to Fairfax, telling him if he ever installs another lock on Thornfield grounds without my express permission, he’s fired. He responds with an immediate thumbs-up—pure proof he’s read my ultimatum even though he’s off the clock. Pure proof he doesn’t give a shite about my threat.

Monday morning, Samantha texts that she’ll miss breakfast because she has to leave early, to prepare for an 11:00 meetingat the freeport. I know she has an 11:00. I’m the one who requested the meeting.