Across from us, on the other seat, on the lap of one of the two new maids, is the wicker basket I used to carry the account books, now replaced by a large parcel Brigid handed me as we climbed into the carriage. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with a cream silk ribbon. She said, ‘A gift to my soon-to-be sister’ and smiled but her lips couldn’t quite hold the shape. I’d left the quilt behind, but she ran down the stairs and pressed it upon me. It seemed I wasn’t soon to be rid of, but I was polite and gave my thanks.
I will burn it at home.
We have fresh staff as well: the maids and, above, are two lads to aid Malachi – must be crowded up there with the coachman, his boy, and the two footmen (one handsome, the other extraordinarily plain). They are to begin the process of making Hob’s Hallow suitable for Aidan and his bride, though the place belongs to the bride already, or at least to her grandmother. But the townhouse isn’t a grand enough “seat”, and so Aidan and Brigid will move out here.
I think about one of the footmen; he’s not one of those who came to collect us a few days ago. He handed me into the carriage (Aidan did not bother to see us off, which was a relief, and Aoife did not care for she’d already got what she wanted) and when I looked at him I thought yet again how much I did not want to marry Aidan. The footman was tall, with sleek black hair, green eyes that tilted at the corners, lips cut into a perfect bow, cheekbones so sharp they’d slice your fingers if you stroked his face. He looked into my eyes and smiled, and I – I squeezed his hand.
‘Take care on the step, Miss,’ he said and his voice was low as he squeezes back.
Aoife’s been very careful to keep me away from any male I’m not related to – indeed, the cousins’ visits so few and far between that I wondered sometimes if that was intentional too. Raised with only old men around me, but for short-lived tenants’ sons, no one’s who ever looked like this. Or at least not for a long while.
I think of the marks Aidan left on my wrist and wonder how much more pain he’ll be wanting to inflict; what if I actually do something wrong? I press my lips together as my fingers heat up under another man’s touch. The carriage won’t return to the port-city immediately, not until the maids establish what needs to be bought and brought from Breakwater, then merchants and tradesfolk will be approached or sent and a new life will begin at Hob’s Hallow.
‘The wedding in a fortnight, I think.’ Aoife’s voice breaks me from my reverie.
‘What?’
She lifts a brow.
‘Pardon?’ I say pointedly.
‘Your wedding in a fortnight.’
‘Oh. At the Hallow?’ I speak as if I’ve got an interest in the event.
‘Oh, it will never be ready by then. No, in Breakwater at the cathedral. A reception at... Aidan will know somewhere, someone will owe him a favour that can translate into a grand ballroom.’
‘We don’t know enough people to fill a grand ballroom, Grandmother.’ A lot of those relatives who came for Óisín’s funeral will still be on their way home – two weeks won’t be enough to send invitations and get them to turn around.
‘Aidan knows important people, all the fine society of Breakwater. Never fear, my girl, you’ll not have a tiny wedding.’ From her tone, she’s thinking of her own marriage to Óisín in the chapel at the Hallow. She’s thinking of my sixteen-year-old mother Isolde coming back from a wedding gods-know-where, her belly full of me, and my father trembling by her side as she asked they be taken in, all sins forgiven.
I’m not certain how much fine society is left in Breakwater since the advent of the Queen of Thieves, but I can see Aoife’s got stars in her eyes, she’s dreaming of the old days or at least the ones she was told about as a child. How rich we were, how significant, how folk flocked to our doors to beg favours and be able to do them in return. I don’t mention there’s no dress for me to wear, and vainly hope this might stop the entire process.
‘Imagine the look on Florrie’s face!’ Aoife fair cackles, but I can’t resent that at least. Aunt Florence will indeed be a picture when she hears; it might even keel the old bat over at long last.
‘Do you miss him?’ I ask all of a sudden. Did they find a kind of love for each other at some point?
‘Who?’
‘Óisín!’
‘”Grief is the black cat rubbing at your ankles, looking for attention,”’ Grandma Aoife says, which is beautiful until she follows it with, ‘Kick it enough times and it goes away.’
I look at her for a long moment until she says, ‘Mark my words, Miren, the O’Malleys are on the rise.’
We speak as if the maids aren’t there, or they’re deaf, and belatedly I flick them a glance. It doesn’t matter anymore, Aoife’s done her crowing. And the girls look as blank as slates.
* * *
‘And what am I supposed to do with these?’ Maura shouts. But she’s eying the peacock-blue frock I’m wearing while she does it. A sure sign of change, a new dress. She’s not noticed the ring as yet.
Aoife disappears up the staircase towards her
