Page 59 of Irish Vice

Braiden rests one hand on his stack of newspapers as he says to me, “I’ll have Fairfax move your things back to the house this morning.”

My spoon clatters into my bowl. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I’ve sent Fiona back to Boston. She’s gone.”

“She’s gone,” Birte echoes. “No more pawn. Gone. Gone. Gone.”

I toss a meaningful glance toward Birte. “Fionawas not the issue.”

“Not the issue,” chants Birte. “Rip like tissue. Is-sue. Is-sue. Is-sue.” She tears the word into parts, rocking with the force of her chant.

Aiofe folds her napkin by her plate before she touches Braiden’s sleeve with one fragile hand. The poor thing truly does look miserable. I don’t think she’ll repeat her midnight-candy mistake again.

“Go on, lass,” Braiden says. “I’ve already texted John Bell. One day’s mitching won’t ruin you. Try a quick kip. You’ll feel better when you wake.”

Birte taps the table. “Quick kip. Make trip. Kip, kip, kip!”

Aiofe hangs her head and makes for the stairs.

Birte calls after her: “When you wake. Don’t you fake. Wake. Wake. Wake.” Then she folds her fingers into a fist and starts pounding the table, continuing to chant, “Wake!”

I have no idea what’s set her off. Maybe it’s Fiona’s empty seat at the table. Maybe it’s Aiofe leaving early, breaking our routine. Maybe it’s the broken circuits in her brain, the damage done when she watched her brother and nephew bleed out on church steps three thousand miles away.

Birte changes her chant: “Break! Break! Break!” The dishes jump on the table every time her fist lands.

“Grace!” Braiden calls, raising his voice enough to be heard in the kitchen. When the door swings open, he says, “Birte’s finished with breakfast. Please help her upstairs.”

Grace gives her usual scowl, but she comes to Birte’s side. As they head toward the third floor, Grace coos about some new hymn Birte is learning to play.

I wait until they’re out of earshot before I say, “This is getting worse.”

“Don’t start,” he warns. “Not today.”

But I ignore him. “She’s chanting more, and she looks exhausted every morning. I don’t think she’s sleeping well. Do you think she heard anyone talking about an annulment?”

He makes an exasperated sound. “She wouldn’t understand, even if she did.”

“She’s not a child. She understands a lot more than you think she does. She needs help, Braiden.”

He bristles. “I got the priest you asked for.”

“Father Regis hasn’t been here in weeks.”

“He was busy with Lent.”

“Even if—” I cut myself off. “She needs a doctor.”

“We arenothaving this conversation again.”

“We neverhaveconversations. You just make rules, and we all scramble to obey.” I throw my napkin on the table and push back my chair.

“Samantha,” he warns.

“I have work to do.”

“Jaysus!” His accent’s gone thick. “Can I have one feckin’ meal not ruined by squabbling women?”

That doesn’t deserve a reply. I turn on my heel and head upstairs to my office.