‘How did you find this place, Miren? Did he tell you?’
‘I found letters from Isolde to Óisín, there were only three, but she said Blackwater was north of Bellsholm, so I came this way, more or less.’ No point mentioning the old silversmith and his wandering memories. ‘I think perhaps she was lonely.’
‘Poor, Miren,’ he sneers. ‘So close to rescue, so many times, so many failures.’
I don’t answer that. We’ve reached the kitchen, so instead I say, ‘You will need a lantern before we descend.’
As I have my hands full, he takes one from the wall, and admires the workmanship of silver, the iridescent glass; I think of throwing one at Edward Elliott, how it made him burn and dance. Aidan lights a taper from the flames in the great kitchen hearth, then the lantern.
I nod and lead him to the back of the cavernous space, to the door to Isolde’s workroom; I think about how it was unlocked as if she took no precautions. I think about the broken glass and the brown stain that may well have been dried blood. I think that perhaps Edward Elliott killed her here. At the back of the chamber with its workbenches and shelves, glass bottles and tubes, mortars and pestles, measuring spoons, is the trapdoor. Again, left unlocked but I suppose that hardly matters when it leads down to the much bigger door with the silver locks.
Aidan gestures for me to go first – he raises the lantern high so I can see my way, but he’s smart enough not to trust me behind him. I grab my skirts so I don’t trip, feel them sticky and cold and remember that I have Nelly’s blood on me. I hitch the sleeping Ena up higher on my shoulder and begin the descent. ‘Why did you murder Nelly?’
‘Who?’ He barely even recalls killing her.
‘The woman. The woman you left in the foyer.’ This child’s mother.
‘She began to shout when I entered the house. I didn’t know how few people were about.’ He pauses. ‘But I’d have killed her anyway. And him, but apparently you took care of that for me, didn’t you, little Miss Miren? There’s no escaping the O’Malley blood and its urges.’
‘How is Brigid?’ I can’t help but ask.
‘Well enough,’ he says shortly. ‘When we return to Breakwater, I’ll marry her to a man I can trust.’
He definitely doesn’t know about Ellingham, then, or his friend would not still be alive.
The stairs seem to go down forever, then at last we are at the large door with the three silver locks. I’ve stood in front of only once before when I tried all the keys on the ring and found none of them fit.
‘What now?’ I say.
He hangs the lantern on a hook on the wall and says, ‘Give me your hand.’
I don’t want to. Oh, how I do not want to. But I stretch forth, palm upwards. He grips my wrist, hard as he ever did and squeezes until the bones grind beneath his strength; just to remind me of what I can expect. Then he produces my mother-of-pearl handled pocketknife and uses the tip to prick my finger. In spite of myself I cry out, less from pain and more from umbrage.
‘Vena amoris,’ he says and chuckles. The vein to the heart. Then he remembers that this finger once bore the massive ruby and pearl engagement ring he put there. ‘Where is the ring?’
‘In my room. It’s safe, along with most of the jewellery Aoife bought.’
‘Gods, but that old bat could spend. She’d have had me in the poorhouse before year’s end,’ he says and I can’t say he’s wrong. ‘Good to know Bethany Lawrence doesn’t have control of everything.’
He pulls me closer to the door and holds my cut finger above the hole in the first silver lock, then squeezes. It hurts and a crimson drop, two, three, drips into the keyhole. For a moment, nothing.
Then a soft whir and a click, the runes carved into the metal of the lock flare, as if a brief flame has run through the thing; it falls open. Aidan looks pleased with himself. He moves my finger to the second lock and repeats the process.
‘What will you do with her?’ I ask.
‘How do you know about her? Aoife kept you in ignorance lest you behave like your mother, refuse to pay the tithe, respect the pact.’
‘I found… I found the tale. The first story of the O’Malleys, how we came to be.’
He looks surprised. ‘I was never allowed to read the book. No one was who didn’t have the O’Malley name.’ His tone’s bitter as aloe. ‘Aoife told me snatches of it, but not enough.’
‘I have the pages, Aidan. You can read it.’ And as strange as this whole situation is, I cannot help but recall that we’re family. We have different parts of the tale, different gaps and lacunae in our histories; I think how mine have injured me. Might they not have warped him as well? All the wealth in the world cannot make you feel accepted if you lack the one thing someone else values above all else: a name.
‘Let me leave her out here, Aidan.’ I tilt my head towards Ena, drooling on my shoulder. ‘Give me your coat, I’ll make a little bed for her.’
‘No,’ he says, and he moves my finger down to the final lock. Squeezes: the blood is slower, more reluctant now, so he hurts me more.
‘Aidan. We can stay here,’ I say. ‘This place is rich; this estate has people who rely on me, on keeping the land fertile. We’re far away from Bethany Lawrence and whatever she wants of you. You don’t need to go back like a hunting dog sent out by its master. Stay here. Be safe.’ I loathe him so much I can barely believe I keep an even tone.
And he looks at me as though considering it. As though considering the
