Page 53 of Irish Vice

Halfway through the second dozen, Aiofe picks up a white wax crayon. She labors over an egg with intense concentration, drawing something on the surface. When she finishes, Grace dips the egg in green dye.

While we’re waiting for the color to set, Birte reaches for the crayon. She folds her fingers around it and holds it in front of her, as if it’s a candle. Bowing her head, she mutters a long prayer in Irish, ending withamen.

Did she say a prayer when she lit the candles she placed against Braiden’s office door? Did she call on God when she tried to burn him alive?

“What were you thinking, Birte?” I ask, not truly expecting an answer. “The day of the fire?”

She continues to finger the crayon without looking at me. But her humming changes to a soft sing-song. “Day of the fire,” she says. “Song of the choir. Punish the liar.” She seals her lips and goes back to her hymn for a few bars before she chants, “Punish the liar, punish the liar, punish the liar…”

Her soft voice raises goosebumps on my arms. I glance at Aiofe and Grace, but they’re intent on the masterpiece Grace is fishing out of the green dye. It’s a portrait of Coinín the rabbit, bright white against a grassy field.

“Fire,” Birte says, loud enough to make me jump. “Choir. Liar.”

Braiden has to be the liar. He’s the one who said he’d always love her and honor her, protect her and cherish her.

Aiofe looks up from her eggs, her lips trembling inside the cut-away of her plastic yellow-chick mask.

“Fire!” Birte shouts again.

Aiofe covers her ears, striping her masked cheeks with blue and green food coloring.

“Fire!” Birte hollers.

Aiofe folds her arms around her waist and rocks back and forth, sending the nearest flat of eggs flying. Bits of colored shell scatter from the stove to the window, and her clothes are streaked with bright dye.

“Fi—” Birte starts again, loud enough to hurt my ears.

“What the hell?” Braiden shouts from the doorway.

Fiona’s behind him, looking like a refugee from a fashion shoot. She’s wearing black leather pants and a scarlet corset that matches her slick lips, every hair perfect in her sleek black bob.

I wonder what the two of them were doing, why they’ve arrived in the kitchen at the exact same time. I wonder if house rules apply to Fiona, if she’s forbidden from working because it’s Sunday. I wonder if I’ll be able to draw a full breath against the spike of jealousy piercing my lungs.

Aiofe runs to Braiden, burying her face against his side. He smooths her hair automatically, apparently oblivious to the streaks of color she smears on his crisp white shirt. Birte falls silent mid-shout, like someone pulled the plug that animates her. Grace mutters over the broken eggs, as if she’s casting some wicked spell in words that might be English, might be Irish, might be known only to her.

“Samantha?” Braiden asks, bewildered.

“We were dyeing Easter eggs,” I say, as if that’s any explanation at all.

Braiden’s large hand settles on Aiofe’s head, soothing, calming. Birte starts a new chant: “Liar. Liar. Liar.”

Braiden scowls. “Grace,” he says, without raising his voice. “Birte is obviously overtired. Get her upstairs for a kip.”

Grace takes Birte’s hand, more gentle than I could ever be. She leads the chanting woman out of the kitchen, trying to avoid the larger pieces of boiled egg.

Braiden waits until they’re gone before he produces a snowylinen handkerchief from his pocket. Pushing Aiofe’s yellow mask up to her forehead, he wipes tears from her cheeks. Then he holds the cloth to her nose and waits for her to blow. “There’s my girl,” he says in a soothing voice. “Now upstairs with you, and change into clean clothes.”

She obeys him without looking back.

Only then does Braiden grimace at the mess left behind—eggs and cups and brightly colored water all over the counter and floor and cabinets. Fiona follows his gaze, but she steps back as if her Manolo Blahniks might catch fire.

“It’s half past three,” she says. “Da will be done with his Sunday roast and expecting me to call.”

“Call, then,” Braiden says, already rolling up his sleeves.

Fiona glances at me. Her thoughts might as well be written in letters ten feet tall:Samantha can clean this mess.

“Don’t let us keep you from your da,” Braiden says.