On the wall, the faces in the painting keep their silence.
When the bourbon is gone, I gather up the maps, shuffle them into a stack, and kill the lamp.
The darkness comes in a rush and I head out to the second-floor balcony, cup of black coffee in one hand, the other hand flat against the iron railing.
The moon is three days off full, but it throws enough light to turn the courtyard into a silver grid, every hedgerowand wall razor-edged.
The statue at the center is a Victorian leftover, an angel with both hands raised, as if calling a taxi from the far side of the river.
The real angels in this city never last long.
They get buried under the next shipment or ground up into the paving stones.
A movement at the corner of my eye, something that doesn't fit the pattern.
I let the coffee rest on the parapet and lean forward, slow enough to avoid the motion detectors, fast enough to avoid the impression of interest.
There is a protocol for every act in this house, but some acts are not meant to be seen.
Keira walks the inner courtyard barefoot, a white nightgown sheathed under a men's overcoat, the fabric hitting her mid-calf and billowing with every step.
The coat is one of mine, I think, or maybe one of my father's, the shoulders too wide.
She has her arms wrapped tight to her ribs, not for warmth, but for the same reason I rest my hand on the rail—to hold something together.
She stops by the fountain and looks up at the moon with the expression of someone timing a detonation.
Her hair is loose, uncombed, and it lifts in the cold wind, catching the light.
The feeling in my chest is warm, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
It's not anger.
I would know what to do with anger.
It's not lust, either.
That would have come and gone with the night, left behind like a receipt in the pocket of the coat she's wearing.
I finish the coffee in two gulps, let the bitterness burn the back of my throat, and set the cup down.
8
KEIRA
The next morning
The estate is silent when I wake, save for the far-off sound of gravel shifting beneath tires and the call of a crow perched high in the sycamore beyond the south wall.
I decide to find Ruairí and dress without hurrying, tying my hair back with one of the silk ribbons I found tucked into the drawer beside my side of the bed and slipping into soft shoes that make no sound as I move through the corridor.
There are no guards at my door.
None are needed.
There are older methods at work here.
At first, I told myself that the cameras were for outside threats.
