Niamh watches me across the table with something too soft to be suspicion, but not quite peace.
"You really came home," she says, like she still doesn't fully believe it.
"Was there ever a choice?"
"There's always a choice," she says, cutting into her beef.
"It just gets smaller every year."
For dessert, they bring porter cake soaked through with Guinness and studded with fruit, the kind that sticks in your molars and leaves the taste of cloves behind.
There's a dollop of fresh cream on the side, and when I lift my spoon, I see Niamh watching me again.
She sets hers down.
"About the note."
I meet her gaze.
"I read it the moment I could. I just—there were eyes. Watching the post, watching my house. The O'Duinns don't trust anyone outside their lines. I couldn't risk it. I didn't know if they'd already gotten to you."
"They tried," I say and leave it there.
She sighs, rubbing her thumb over the rim of her glass.
"Everything's changing. The council's eating itself. Half of them are lining up behind the O'Duinns, the other half are waiting to see if you make a real move. But after what happened to you and how Ruairí responded... everything's volatile. They smell blood. They're expecting war."
"They're not wrong," I say.
Niamh nods.
"They want you at the table. But it's a trap. A soft one. Conditional entry. No vote until you give them what they need."
"They'll get nothing," I murmur, "and they'll still ask."
"You need to show them you're not a memory."
"I already have."
We sit in silence for a time.
The tea is poured—loose leaf, strong, the kind that stains your teeth if you're not careful—and I cradle the cup like I used to when I was sixteen, listening to the old women talk about sins and neighbors as if they were the same thing.
Niamh picks apart a biscuit, not eating it, just keeping her hands busy.
"It's different now," she says at last.
"All of it. You know that, right?"
"Yes," I reply, "and it still belongs to me."
Her mouth twitches.
"Then they've no idea what's coming."
We drink our tea in silence, the pastry crumbs catching in the candlelight.
The next day, I begin sending out word of my return.
