Page 75 of The Pirate Queen

Only twice has she met Aisling, and both times in the company of Maeve, who provides a buffer against the open hostility of Donal’s mother. No one would dare insult the chieftain’s daughter in front of the chieftain’s wife. Not if they enjoy having a roof over their heads. And Maeve’s reciprocal enmity has always made Grace think her mother would be happy to throw the torch onto that thatched roof herself, happy to banish Aisling and Donal from this island once and for all.

The village is still. Dark, pungent peat smoke fills the air. As does the crowing of roosters and the bleating of sheep on the hills. An occasional dog bark. A crying child. Turves of peat are stacked beside each entryway, and every door is propped open to let out whatever smoke doesn’t escape the chimney. Grace thinks that everyone she knows smells like they have just escaped a house fire.

She comes to the end of the lane and finds herself at Donal’s door. It is closed. Quiet within. A huge black dog lies against the wall, tied to a post with a frayed rope, like it has been trying to gnaw its way free. The dog looks at her with pleading eyes. She wouldn’t want to live here either.

Grace raps on the door with her knuckles.

Silence.

Now she pounds with her fist.

The dog bares its teeth, but it looks more like laughter than a growl.

“Donal!” she shouts.

There is shuffling within. A bang and a curse, the sound of a stubbed toe. Grace lifts her hand to knock a third time as the door swings open.

Aisling, in her leine. Straw in her hair, soot on her chin. It takes her eyes a moment to focus on Grace—to understand who their guest is—then to narrow.

Grace blinks when the door slams shut in her face.

She looks at the dog for help. It bobs its head in sympathy. Yes, the dog seems to agree, that woman is a bitch.

“Donal!” Grace calls, unsure what to do. “Da sent for you.”

The door swings open again and Aisling is back, a blanket around her shoulders, hatred in her eyes.

“Donal is sleeping,” she says. “Your father had him out late last night.”

“We were back before sunset,” Grace argues, because it’s the truth.

A shudder goes through Aisling’s body, some wave of fury that Grace identifies too late. And now there is a knife at her throat. Grace can feel the cold steel and the sharp point and a burning just below her chin.

She never saw Aisling’s hand move, never saw the blade. One flinch on Grace’s part, one thrust of the knife from Donal’s mother, and she will be dead. That knowledge blooms bright in Aisling’s eyes, a heady power that forces a nasty grin.

“We?” Aisling snarls. “Well, aren’t we a right little cunt, trouncing about with the men. I wonder what your mother thinks?”

Grace is so startled to hear such ugly words come from such a pretty mouth that she remains frozen—stupid, even—as the barrage continues. Her mouth goes dry and her heart hammers in her chest. That burning at her throat grows hotter, and she feels a wet warmth as blood trickles down her neck into the collar of her dress.

“But then again, I suppose your mother would know a thing or two about being a cunt, wouldn’t she? Stealing a man right out from under me. I wonder how wide she had to spread her legs?”

Grace has spent enough time in barns to understand the way of nature. Cows, horses, goats, sheep. They all mount the same. A bit of rutting and then a few months later there’s the calf or foal or kid or lamb. Lots of blood and mess involved. And she knows the process must be similar for people, though the details remain hazy, like heat on the horizon. She does not want to think about her father with this woman. Does not understand why he would have been with her in the first place.

“Da has sent for Donal,” she says again, standing as still as possible.

“Your da could come himself, you know. Pay me a visit. Like old times.” Aisling shrugs out of the blanket and it drops to the hard-packed dirt floor. Her leine is thin and the morning light shines through, casting her figure in silhouette. “I could give him another child. Since your mother hasn’t had any luck. You do know how babies are made, don’t you? First a man takes a woman to a private place. Then he takes off her clothes. Then he—”

Donal appears in the doorway. His voice is filled with reprimand. “Mam.”

He reaches for his mother’s wrist, but Aisling stiffens and Grace sucks in a sharp breath as the blade slips a fraction deeper into her throat. If brother and sister resemble each other, it is in their eyes, and they speak with just a glance now.

Trust me, he says.

Always, she answers.

Two blinks, nothing more, and when Donal lifts his hand again, he quickly shoves Grace’s shoulder. She stumbles backward away from the blade, and he takes her place on the threshold facing his mother.

Aisling doesn’t resist this time when Donal plucks the knife from her hand and tosses it to the floor inside the cottage. She hardly seems to notice at all, that hateful gaze still locked on Grace. The three of them stand at an impasse.