Padraig leans back.
"You made a mess of it. If there's retaliation?—"
I cut him off, but gently.
"There is no one left to retaliate. We checked."
Fiachra shifts his weight, hands clasped so tightly theknuckles are blue.
He wants to speak, but this is not his room.
The Chairman looks at the ring, then at the men on either side of him.
"The matter is done," he says, and his voice is both a question and a verdict.
The men nod or pretend to.
No one smiles.
I take the next step.
"We need a new steward for the ports." I let it hang.
"Keira will serve as interim. Effective immediately."
I do not look at her, but I feel the way the air shifts, the new vectors of hate or hope or hunger.
The men expected a name, but not this name.
Padraig's face closes, shutters sliding into place behind his eyes.
"She's not qualified," he says, but it is automatic, a twitch, not an argument.
"She is," I reply.
"She's the only one who's already run the pipeline with a gun to her head. You'll get no better."
The Chairman glances at Keira.
For a moment, his old man's mask slips, and I see him trying to decide if she will outlive him or if he will have the pleasure of watching her fail.
He says, "You accept?"
Keira meets his gaze.
"I do."
It's not a vow, it's a diagnosis.
Padraig makes a sound, a cough or a curse.
He stands, but the table is between us.
Fiachra shifts, ready.
But Padraig only gathers his papers and pushes them into a folder, hands shaking now, and leaves without another word.
The door closes behind him with a thud that is almost relief.
