"Mr. Flannery," Father McCleary greets him coolly. "Thank you for joining us."
"Didn't know I had a choice," Sean replies, his accent thick and rough.
Father McCleary's mouth tightens. "Before I agree to officiate this marriage, I require both of you to undergo premaritalcounseling. It's standard practice in the Church, but in your case, I believe it's especially important."
"We don't need counseling," Sean says flatly. "This isn't that kind of marriage."
I link my fingers together in my lap, twisting them tightly. For one brief second, I think I see Sean looking at me out of the corner of his eye, taking in my appearance—the forest green sweater dress, and black tights and boots I chose for the meeting. It’s so fast I can’t be sure, before his hard, cold green gaze is fixed on the priest again.
"Nevertheless." Father McCleary's voice is firm, the voice of a man who's spent decades dealing with recalcitrant parishioners. "If you want me to perform the ceremony, you'll participate. Otherwise, you can find another priest."
I see Sean's jaw clench, see the muscle jump beneath his stubble. My stomach tenses as I wait for him to say that we’ll do that, then. Surely he doesn’t care about complicating things for the Council or which priest marries us. But he nods curtly. "Fine."
A jolt of relief ripples through me, but it’s short-lived.
"Excellent." Father McCleary pulls out a leather-bound notebook and pen. "Let's start with the basics. How did you two meet?"
The question is so absurd, given our situation, that I almost laugh. Almost.
“He was introduced to me at my home,” I begin, looking nervously between the priest and Sean, leaving out the part where that happened three days ago. “We were?—”
"The Council assigned me to her," Sean interrupts bluntly. "That's how we met." He tilts his head as he looks at Father McCleary. “You are aware of the Irish Council? From Dublin?”
Father McCleary winces. "I see. And yes, I am aware of them. How long have you known each other?"
“Three days,” Sean answers, before I can speak. “And that’s a bit loose with the definition, if I’m being honest. I’ve spoken to the lass once, when I first met her three days ago. Briefly.”
Is he trying to make this difficult?My fingers are twisted so tightly together I feel like I’m going to pinch a nerve. My cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. Everything about this meeting is ridiculous, and I know Father McCleary is as aware of that as I am.
"Three days," Father McCleary repeats, his tone carefully neutral. He looks at me. "Maeve, are you entering this marriage of your own free will?"
I feel Sean's eyes on me fully for the first time since he entered the room. The weight of his gaze makes my skin prickle. I know what I'm supposed to say. I know what answer keeps me safe, keeps me under the Council's protection.
I lied earlier, when I was alone, when it was just Father McCleary and me. But suddenly, with Sean’s hard gaze on me, in front of the priest who baptized me and gave me my first Communion, who buried my father and my sister and my brother, I can’t force the lie out.
"I'm entering it because it's the only choice I have," I say quietly, not looking at either of them. Fear trickles through me as I say the words aloud, but I’m glad I did. I don’t want Sean to have any excuse, I realize, to claim he didn’t know I was unwilling. Any reason to do what he undoubtedly will to me while claiming I said in front of a man of God that I was here of my own choice.
The silence that follows is heavy. When I finally dare to glance at Sean, his expression is unreadable. Something flickers in his eyes—anger? Guilt?—but it's gone before I can identify it.
"Mr. Flannery," Father McCleary says carefully. "What are your intentions toward Maeve? What kind of husband do you intend to be?"
Sean leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. "The kind who keeps her alive. That's what I was sent here to do."
"And is that all?"
"That's all that matters."
My stomach twists. Put like that, it seems almost noble. But there’s nothing about this man that makes me think he’d do anything out of the goodness of his heart. There’s something more to this, some reason he’s sitting here, clearly as unwilling as I am, but going along with it all.
The thought of what the Council could possibly have on a man like this to force him into a marriage he doesn’t want is terrifying.
"I see." Father McCleary makes a note in his book. "And have you discussed the expectations of the marriage? Living arrangements, finances, the physical relationship?—"
"No," I say quickly, my face heating. I can't have this conversation. Not here, not with Father McCleary, not with Sean glaring at the priest like he’s never been angrier in his life to be in a meeting.
"These things need to be discussed," Father McCleary insists gently. "Marriage is a partnership. You need to understand what each of you expects?—"
"I'll live in her house," Sean interrupts. "I'll manage the security and handle the business interests the Council wants protected. That's what's expected of me."
