I leave her in the kitchen and walk through the old rooms, touching the backs of chairs, the frames of doors, the places where the wallpaper peels in corners.
I remember the nights when I was small, curled up on the rug in the den, listening to the adults argue about shipments and enemies and the latest idiot to cross the line.
I used to think they were giants, unkillable.
Now, most of them are dead, and the rest are hoping I'll forget what they owe.
The new guards avoid my gaze.
They pretend to check their radios, to fidget with the fit of their jackets.
Some of them are good.
Some of them will have to go.
I stop at the window overlooking the garden.
The grass is brown, half-melted in the frost.
The crows are already at work, fighting over the scraps of bread left on the stones.
I watch them for a minute, the way they scream and claw, the way the winner always looks around as if expecting a bigger threat.
That's what I want to give my children—the knowledge that there is always a bigger threat, and that the only thing you can do is be meaner, smarter, or at the very least, harder to kill.
I trace a circle on the glass, then press my palm flat to it.
The city is out there, waiting for me to make the first move.
I have to make it the right one.
As I make for the breakfast hall, I pause at the base ofthe stairs, one hand on the banister.
My stomach is tight.
I think of all the mothers before me, all the girls who never got this far.
I think of my mother, her face set like stone, and the day she told me that to rule a city, you have to be willing to lose everything.
I am willing, but not because I want to rule this city.
This will be what I leave behind for my children.
The breakfast hall is not the grand ballroom of my childhood, but it wants to be.
My father built it on the bones of an old library, stripped out the bookshelves, replaced them with long tables stained the color of new blood.
The walls are lined with hunting prints, stags and hounds, each one hung at the precise height to make guests feel small.
The floor is black and white tile, not marble but close enough, and in the far corner, someone has set up a coffee urn so large, it could heat a public bath.
Ruairí stands in the entry, face set to neutral, eyes flicking over the assembled staff.
Lena is at the far end, arms crossed and mouth set in a straight line.
The guards are here, too, all wearing the same uniform of cheap suit and latent suspicion.
Niamh has a seat at the table, already working her way through a pastry, eyes bright with the promise of a good show.
