I am carrying the past, too, whether I like it or not.
I close my eyes, see Aoife's face, the worry in the corners of her mouth, and wonder once again if I should tell Ruairí, even though there are more moves left to make.
The uneasiness takes root, so I leave my room.
I make a show of normalcy, stopping at the kitchen for coffee, flipping through the day's newspaper, offering a nod to the cleaner.
For the rest of the day, I avoid the main floor.
I drift between the library, the empty guest rooms, the sunroom with its brittle, out-of-season light.
I read nothing, touch nothing, speak to no one.
Each room I enter is a new test of loyalty—who lingers, who vanishes, who pretends not to notice my presence.
The only constant is the sound of the house itself, the low moan of its pipes, the crack of its bones as the cold seeps in.
At dinner, I sit at the end of the table.
Ruairí takes his place at the head, flanked by two lieutenants I've never seen before.
Their conversation is all numbers and risk, the city's bloodless version of chess.
They do not include me, but they watch the way I eat, the way I hold the fork, the way I chew each bite as if it might be my last.
Ruairí doesn't ask about my morning.
Instead, he launches into a story about the port, how the Russians had tried to run a batch of cheap vodka through a Donnelly shell company, and how he'd forced them to drink the entire shipment as proof of good faith.
The men at the table laugh, but it's a hollow, practiced sound.
I smile, too, because the alternative is worse.
When dinner ends, I slip out before the brandy is poured.
I take the back stairs, the ones with the loose baluster at the midpoint, and move through the shadowedhalls.
The day staff are gone, replaced by the men who do their work without light or audience.
The guards in the east corridor are doubled up, one at each end, both smoking with the windows cracked.
I pass them with a nod, counting their blinks.
I make my way to the third floor, to the old drawing room with its broken chandelier and the smell of mold.
I sit on the windowsill; legs curled up and watch the city through the slats.
In the distance, the shimmer of lights from the canal, the brief, bright flare of someone's kitchen window as they switch on for the night.
I watch until my eyes burn, until the only thing left is the afterimage of the city on my lids.
When I finally leave the room, it's late.
The house is darker, the air colder, and the only sound is the steady, metronomic tap of my own feet on the floorboards.
I walk with no aim, just a need to see if I'm still allowed.
At the end of the long west corridor, I pause.
