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After a breathless eternity, he breaks the kiss and murmurs against my lips, “Give me a week. I’ll get us where we need to be at Newgrange.”
I nod, my fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “One week.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Niamh
THE DOOR TO the research room never opened for me. Diarmuid and Selene’s shouting match had died down, but they still hadn’t left. My stomach tightens as the silence stretches on, and I know that means they settled everything. They probably ended up even closer.
Which means,I failed.
I clutch the broom tighter, fighting back tears as I start sweeping up the broken glass in the hallway. One shard glints in the dim light, jagged and cruel, like a dagger into my heart. After I clear the last splintered piece, I turn to the grandfather clock lying on its side. Its wooden frame is damaged, and the once-proud clock now stands lopsided, its cables and pulleys hopelessly tangled. Not a tick, not a sound. Just a silent, mocking reminder that time had run out. My time.
I had noticed it for the first time in Selene’s apartment the way they gravitated towards each other. I’ve never felt like a third wheel with them, but that night. I really had. It wasn’t just his touch; it was how they started like they were the only two people in the world or how he kissed her differently than me.
With shaking hands, I gather the shattered glass and dump it in the bathroom trash can, leaving the broom and dustpan in the hallway. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Mechanically, I shuffle into the master bedroom and collapse onto the bed. My arm reaches out on instinct, fingers brushing the pillow where Diarmuid’s head used to rest.
My chest heaves, and the tears start to fall, leaving a damp stain on the pillowcase. Hot, salty rivers that I can’t hold back anymore.
Ella could be next, I think through the sobs. If I don’t find a way to be useful to the Hands of Kings, they could take her instead. The image of my sister being handed over, her fear, her confusion of why I didn’t stop it is enough to send my heart skyrocketing.
The thought is a bitter one, sinking deep into the pit of my stomach. My failure means I couldn't secure her future, and it feels like I’ve let her down in the worst way possible. The whole situation is so unfair.
I curl up tighter, trying to contain my grief as the tears come again, flooding through me with a force that leaves me shaking.
What a tired and tragic world this is, this world of women. We like to convince ourselves that we’re in charge of our destinies, but our fates are bound up in everyone else’s choices. I’ve been trained to be competitive, but not like this. No, I was thrown into an arena for a sport I never learned to play.
And all the while, my parents sit back and reap the rewards of the hell I’m going through. I didn’t sign up for this. In my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined being handed a sentence so messed up. The deeper we dig into Diarmuid’s world, the more I want to run, but I have no where to run to. I have no one to turn to. I have no one…. I have Ella, and she is worth protecting.
A bitter taste rises in my throat as I sit up and wipe away my tears. I can't control what the cult decides, but I can confront two people who are responsible for all of this.
I quickly get dressed and head downstairs, each step growing firmer with purpose. The murmur of voices in the lobby reaches my ears before I see them—a few guards playing cards. They jump up, startled, as soon as I step into view.
“I want to see my parents,” I say, my voice steady and unwavering, a complete contradiction to the tide of anger and pain that rides hard and fast inside me.
One of the guards looks confused and shifts his gaze to the others as if seeking the other guards’ approval first before he makes his decision. After a pause, and a conversation that only seems to take place with looks and nods, I’m motioned by another guard.
“Let’s go,” the guard says gruffly, gesturing for me to follow.
I square my shoulders, keeping my eyes fixed ahead. The resolve hardens within me as I imagine the confrontation. It’s time my parents understood the cost of their ambitions, the scars etched deeply into my skin. I can’t allow Ella’s youthful skin to be marred with their greed.
The streets are empty as I'm driven toward the house where I was raised. The headlights cast a dim glow on the vacant pavement, and my protectors sit silently beside me in the car. It's the middle of the night, and the guards didn’t even question this sudden journey—they've learned over the past few weeks that Selene and I both tend to go places impulsively. But unlike them, I'm questioning my decision more than ever. Returning home feels like pulling at a knot that could either unravel smoothly or tighten around my neck.
We pull into the driveway, and as I step out into the night air, a chill grips me, and my breath forms a cloud in front of my face. The smell of the sea fills my lungs and brings me strength. After all, I was made for the water, and I miss the smell of it so much. I glance back in the direction where I know the water rages against the rock side. I can’t see it, but I can picture the slashing of waves, making their mark in the landscape, like some form of script that only Mother Nature can decipher.
Motion sensor lights flick on, illuminating the Tudor-style woodwork at the peak of the facade. The sudden lighting brings me back to the reason I am here. My mind wanders to my real reason. Is it the understanding that Diarmuid won’t pick me that fuels my anger, or the thought of Ella going to the highest bidder? I ring the doorbell repeatedly, aggressively. Both. It’s both, I realize.
I hear one of the guards starting to open the car door, but I snap, “Stay in the car and keep it running!”
The door swings open, and my father stands there, tightening his robe around his body, his face etched with confusion. My mother hurries down the hallway behind him, her expression just as bewildered.
“Niamh? What the hell are you—” my father begins as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
“No,” I cut him off. “I’m talking. You are listening. Ella is not a bargaining chip.”
“What?” my mother stammers, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Niamh, what are you—”
“I’m still talking!” I snarl. My anger feels like fire in my veins, and I let it burn. “Whatever deal you made for me, you won't make it for Ella. She will live a normal life and have all the opportunities that you denied me. All of them. Any of them. If she wants to keep doing ballet, she'll keep doing ballet. If she wants to be a bloody clown, she will be a clown.”
