Page 69 of The Pirate Queen

Once Grace makes it to the top of the cabin deck, she sees Ultan take his wordless assessment, wondering what has caused her disheveled state.

“Can we beat it?” she asks.

Ultan frowns. “Beat what?”

“The storm.”

“Is cold as a fairy’s curse.” He scowls at her bare feet. “But you’ll not see a grander day in February.”

He says it Feb-yer-ee, like each syllable is something to be played with, tossed around like a ball.

“Foul weather will be on us in an hour,” she insists.

They had spent the week in Oban, collecting their Gallowglass. Then they’d gone by Kerrera and Mull, into the Inner Hebridean seas. Much of that had been rowing, and the Gallowglass came in handy then. Once past Oronsay, they made for open water and have kept a good clip ever since. She’d felt confident enough last night to give Ultan the helm and go to bed. And she’d slept too, deep and long, rocked by the ship. Grace cannot remember the last time she’d had such lovely rest. No dreams. No interruptions. No waking up at half past two, unable to go back to sleep. If not for the pounding in her skull, she’d still be in the cabin, blissfully unaware.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“Between Islay and Ulster,” he says. “We’ll turn west once the shoreline is in sight.”

This is the worst possible news. They are deep at sea. Vulnerable to sinking in violent weather.

“If we turn back right now, how long would it take to reach Port Charlotte? We could anchor in Loch Indaal until the storm passes.”

Ultan squints at the pewter-colored sky. He rolls his lips together, measuring his own life expectancy if he argues with her. “I have felt more threatened by a báb than this weather, Gráinne,” he says at last, then sighs. Ultan crunches up his face as though it’s a wad of parchment and he’s just balled it in his fist. He thinks. “We’ve a southeasterly wind. Clear skies. Mild seas. The tidal streams in the channel are pushing us east, which is slowing us by a few knots. If we turn back now, it will take at least twelve hours to reach Islay. Would be easier to stay the course and sail for Ulster. We can be there in six. If foul weather crops up, we can find anchorage there. We’d be closer to home and save a day of travel.”

It is a wise suggestion. Stay the course and keep their time. So how is she to explain that it feels wrong? That her instincts are never wrong? How does she explain that the sound of Manannán’s steed is always the first sign of a deadly storm? This is a conversation she has only ever had with her father, and he’s been dead over twenty years.

No, Ultan will think her addled. He will not understand this curse she’s been given.

And then, of course, there is Bingham, his threats still ringing in her ears. She has already lost one son to his hatred; she’ll not lose another. Every Gallowglass she delivers to Hook is another sword—another battle-ax—to keep Bingham at bay.

One breath. That’s how long it takes to make the decision.

But all she tells him is, “The day doesn’t feel right.” Grace looks to the bright sails of the other two ships that flank Niamh, their sleek bodies cutting through the dark water, their lanterns dimming with the dawn. “Signal Caoimhe and the Róisín Dubh. Hoist all sails. We make for Ulster.”

Grace was wrong. It takes less than an hour for the storm to develop. The sun has not fully risen before it is swallowed by a wall of boiling black cloud that forms out of nowhere. The wind shifts and then the sea beneath them begins to churn and heave like an upset stomach. She can feel a shudder run along Niamh’s spine as the ocean joins with the wind and begins to push them hard and fast toward Ulster’s northern coastline.

“What is this devilry?” Ultan shouts into the wind. Bent at the waist, he keeps one hand on the tiller and the other at his brow to block the driving rain from his eyes.

“I told you!”

“But how did you know it would go manky?”

“ ’Tis my curse,” she shouts over the howling wind.

“That is not an answer.”

Grace stands beside him, fully dressed now, trews cinched tight, boots on, hair braided. Her feet are anchored to the deck. One hand holds the rail, and the other her compass. Her gaze darts between its bouncing needle and the sheets of rain that pound the deck. The ivory backing is yellowed now, and the silver case has patinaed. She and the compass have both aged, she thinks, hopefully with some grace. At least they’re both still in working order.

Ultan glares at her like she’s keeping some great secret from him, and perhaps she is.

“How did you know?” he asks again.

She looks at his strained, quivering forearm trying to control the tiller. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? We’d have been caught no matter what.”

Lanterns swing wildly across the ship—on the stern, both masts, and the bow. It is the only way for Caoimhe and the Róisín Dubh to keep them in sight. She catches only occasional glimpses of their own lanterns as they struggle to keep course behind Niamh. The waves surge and billow, obscuring their view of both the shore and the small fleet.

When the storm shifts again—when it deepens, like a growl—she realizes she has made a grave error. Turning for Islay had been their only chance. It would not have saved them from the storm entirely. But at least it wouldn’t be at their back, pushing them toward the shores of Ulster as if Manannán himself wanted them dead. Perhaps he is angry with her for ignoring the Sense.