He's let his hair grow out in a way that makes him look younger and more dangerous, but not in a good way.
His eyes are the same, though.
Sharp, hungry, too blue to ever be trusted.
"What's the real concern?" I ask.
He flicks a look at the door, then back at me.
"She's too smart. She's asking the wrong questions, but she's getting the right answers. The men in the kitchen, they're talking about her like she's a ghost. The house staff won't sleep on her floor, not even the ones who grew up with her family name drilled into their heads. You can't keep her here."
I let the silence hang, this time because I enjoy it.
Fiachra pushes the point.
"Send her somewhere else. Not Arklow, that's too obvious. Somewhere colder, safer, quieter. Maybe send her north for the summer. Or west, out to the coast, where nobody has a phone and the only thing to report is the tide schedule."
He has spent a lifetime planning for failure, and every contingency begins with sending women and children away.
The fact that Keira is neither, at least not in the way he means, has not yet made it past his wiring.
I lean forward, plant both hands on the edge of the table, and let the lamp cast a shadow across the entire western district.
"No," I say.
The word lands like a card thrown in a losing hand.
It isn't loud, but it doesn't need to be.
Fiachra waits for the rest of the sentence, but there is no rest.
There is only the sound of the lighter again, click, click, click.
He rocks back on his heels, looks at the painting, then the window, as if someone outside might be watching.
The urge to argue is palpable, but he swallows it like a bad prescription.
"Fine," he says. "But you'll regret it."
I doubt it, but I have the sense to keep that to myself.
He taps the table once, a signal that the discussion is over, then gathers his coat and walks out, shutting the door without a glance.
The room is instantly colder.
I rotate one of the blue pins a quarter turn, just for the satisfaction of it, then pour the last of the bourbon and chase it with a sip of ice water.
The map never changes, not really.
All the markers do is bleed from one color to the next, over and over, until you can't remember who owned what before the last round of negotiations.
I look at the spread and imagine the same table ten years from now, crowded with different men, telling themselves they've solved the problem for good.
I reach for the black marker, circle a spot just north of the old docks, and make a note in the margin.
Secure before April.
The ink soaks in.
