"You'll need to tell him. Sooner, not later."
I look at her, wondering if she's a mother or if she's ever wanted to be.
I wonder if she's just saying what she thinks Iwant to hear or if there's a part of her that envies this particular disaster.
"Is there risk?" I ask.
"Genetic. Hereditary."
She shakes her head.
"If you're asking about the Donnellys, you know there's nothing written down. If you're asking about him…" She trails off, thinking, then says, "The Crowleys breed survivors. That's all."
I laugh, because it's all I can do.
She stands, moves to the kitchenette, and comes back with an envelope.
"Inside is a number. It's for the next check-in. One month from today. Not before."
I slip the envelope into my back pocket.
"I need discretion."
"You have it, love."
I count out five bills from the wad in my coat, leave them on the table without folding.
Aoife watches them, then looks at me.
"If you want it gone," she says, "you need to decide now."
I shake my head.
"I want a lot of things, but not to end this."
She nods, and I show myself out.
Lena and I stop on the way for the vitamins, and then we return home in silence.
At the estate, I go straight to my room and spend an unreasonable amount of time cataloging every possible outcome, the way a chess player does in the half-second after a blunder.
Six weeks isn't enough time to change the board, but it's enough to see the shape of the game.
I think of Ruairí's face, how it will look if I tell him.
I pour myself a glass of water, drink half, then pour the rest into the vase on the desk.
These children belong to me.
I can already feel their presence in my blood and in my bones, sure as the very air I breathe.
There is no taking them from me.
What remains to be seen is whether Ruairí feels the same way.
I sit on the bed, press both hands to my stomach, and let the silence expand until it's all I can hear.
I am carrying the future of a family.
