“This is Cass,” Finn announces. “He’s going to play with us.”
Liam studies me for a moment, his green eyes serious in a way that seems too old for a four-year-old. Then he nods once, apparently deciding I’m acceptable.
We kick the ball around for maybe ten minutes. Finn is loud and enthusiastic, laughing every time he manages to get the ball past me. Liam is quieter, more focused, taking his time with each kick like he’s calculating angles.
They’re good kids. Energetic and funny and charming in the way small children are when they haven’t learned to be guarded yet.
“Do you live here?” Liam asks at one point, his voice softer than his brother’s.
“No. I’m just visiting my mother.”
“Where do you live?”
“New York.”
“That’s in America,” Finn says confidently. “We learned about it in school.”
“You go to school?”
“Sometimes. When Mam says we have to.”
The nanny who spoke earlier stands up again, checking her watch. “Boys, we need to head back.”
Finn groans dramatically. “But we’re playing!”
“We’ll play more tomorrow. Say thank you to the nice man.”
“Thank you, Cass!” Finn shouts, already running toward the nanny.
Liam hangs back for a second, looking at me with those serious green eyes. “Thanks for playing with us.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turns and follows his brother, and I watch them go. The nannies gather their things, each taking one boy’s hand, and they walk up the road toward the eastern edge of the village.
12
AURELIA
My twins turnfive on a gray Tuesday in March.
Helena bakes a cake. Chocolate with vanilla frosting because Finn refuses to eat anything else. The nannies sing “Happy Birthday” in their thick Cork accents while Liam claps his hands and Finn tries to blow out the candles before anyone finishes the song.
I watch from the doorway and try not to think about the fact that Cassian doesn’t know his sons exist. That he’s never seen them blow out birthday candles or heard them laugh or felt their small hands grab onto his fingers.
That they’re five years old and he doesn’t even know their names.
The house we live in sits on the eastern edge of Ballycotton, close enough to the village that I can walk to the market but far enough that we have privacy. It’s a renovated cottage with whitewashed stone walls and a slate roof that leaks when it rains hard. Three bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen and sittingroom downstairs, and a garden out back that Helena tends obsessively.
The boys share a room because they scream if we try to separate them at night. Twin beds pushed close together, toys scattered across the floor, drawings taped to the walls that are mostly scribbles, but Finn insists are “dragons and boats.”
We have two nannies. Mary and Bridget. Both local women in their fifties who were hired by Victor before we arrived and are paid well enough that they don’t ask questions about why a young woman and her twin sons are living in Ballycotton under constant supervision.
Because that’s what this is. Supervision.
Helena runs the household, manages the staff, and makes sure the boys have everything they need. But she also reports to Victor. I know because I’ve seen her on the phone late at night, speaking quietly in the kitchen when she thinks I’m asleep.
Mary and Bridget take care of the boys during the day while I do nothing. They feed them, play with them, teach them their letters and numbers. The boys adore them, call them “Nanny Mary” and “Nanny Bri” in accents so thick and Irish it sometimes hurts to hear.
