Page 2 of The Pirate Queen

The call comes from on board, near the prow, and the voice sounds like rocks grinding together. It belongs to Sivney, her father’s first mate. He’s always been kind to Grace, but he doesn’t look at her now.

Donal collects the mooring lines and loops them into a pile on the deck. Steps back. Glances at Grace. Take my place, his eyes implore, but his lips are pressed tight.

“Shove off!” Her father gives the order, and fifteen oars on the port side reach out and rest against the dock. “Push!”

Niamh groans and moves away from the rocky outcropping.

“Again!”

The oarsmen lean to the left, shoving the long wooden blades against the dock, then repeat the process. Now Niamh bobs far enough away for them to row.

“Da.” It is no longer a plea, but an accusation, and Grace takes a step forward, reaching for him.

Eóin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, bird.”

Furious, Grace throws the braid at his head. The sight seems to startle him and he reaches for it on instinct, but her hair is caught by the wind and whisked away, a red sail flapping in the sun for a moment before it drops to the brackish water, tendrils spreading, soaking, then sinking.

Maeve. Wife and mother and—now—untangler of knots. She winces as the comb catches in what is left of her daughter’s once-beautiful hair.

“Why?” Maeve asks.

Riled by the wind and her furious march up the hill, Gráinne’s curls must be wetted down before they can be tamed. Maeve dips the ivory tines into a pitcher, then runs them through the now-short red strands. She combs, then lifts to see what can be salvaged and what must be trimmed. Finding a jagged section, she holds it aloft with one hand, then snips with her scissors, watches bits of copper drift to the floor and disappear into the woven rush mat. The longest parts now fall to her daughter’s chin. But the hair at her nape is little more than stubble. Gráinne is too pretty to look like a boy, but now, for the first time, she resembles her brother. An angry coil forms in Maeve’s belly at the realization.

Again she asks, “Why?”

Gráinne slumps on the stool, then looks up at the cracked looking glass. She glares at her own reflection. “Da said I could go to Galway if I cut my hair.”

Maeve breathes out the curse she’s so often heard her husband mutter. Fecking Galway.

“There is a difference between what’s said and what you wish to hear. Tell me what your father said.”

“He said I can’t go with him because my hair will get caught in the ropes.”

“And you thought he’d take you if you cut it?”

A nod.

“Look at me.” Maeve turns her so they are eye to eye. She leans closer. Speaks a harsh truth. “No one did this to you.”

Gráinne opens her mouth to argue.

“No.” Maeve gives her a gentle shake. “You did this to yourself.”

“He lied.”

“He’s a man, isn’t he? Won’t be the last time.”

“Fathers shouldn’t lie.”

Maeve looks to the window where Niamh’s white sails bob at the far edge of the horizon. She sighs. “Neither should husbands. But they do. Do you understand me? Men. Lie. Sometimes with words. Sometimes without them.”

“Do women lie?”

Maeve doesn’t catch her smile in time, and it flashes wide across her face. Her daughter has unwittingly trapped her. To answer as she’d like, to tell her daughter no, would itself be a lie.

“Tá.”

“When?”