Prudence takes the hand he offers. Her posture is rigid with formality, and for a moment I think she might curtsy.
“The private room is set up in the back,” Lorcan tells me, jerking his chin. “Everyone’s here. Cillian’s pretending he doesn’t care about the fuss, but he looks like a peacock king holding court.”
I guide Prudence through the crowd. She moves with careful steps, turning her head to watch a waitress balance a tray of pintglasses, then a group of men roaring at something on a mounted television screen. Her face cycles between wonder and worry so fast I doubt anyone else catches it.
I catch it.
The private room is separated from the main floor by a heavy wooden door. Inside, the noise drops enough to hold a conversation. There’s a small bar against the wall, and a long table runs down the center, laden with food and bottles. The family is already arranged around it in their usual formation.
Cillian stands near the head of the table with Nora at his side, his hand resting on her hip, hers on her pregnant stomach. He’s in a dark suit—birthday or not, the man dresses as though he’s conducting a board meeting. His eyes track our entrance, and move from my face to Prudence where they hold for a beat—assessing a variable he didn’t anticipate.
Admittedly—although she’s as beautiful as any woman I’ve ever had on my arm, even more so, truth be told—she’s not my usual type. That is to say, she’s not a vain, materialistic airhead.
I watch as Cillian reads her posture, the placement of my hand on her back, then spots the ring I put on her finger yesterday—a platinum and diamond wedding set I bought from a jeweler on Michigan Avenue.
I draw Prudence forward and nod at my oldest brother. “Cillian, happy birthday,” I say before announcing to the family, “I’d like you all to meet Prudence. My wife.”
Cillian’s eyes narrow as Nora’s widen. It’s Nora who recovers first, stepping forward with grace and warmth, to clasp both of Prudence’s hands. “It’s so wonderful to meet you.” The kindness in Nora’s voice is genuine—she arrived at this family with nothing and built herself into something formidable. She squeezes Prudence’s fingers and murmurs, “If you need anything tonight—anything at all—come find me.”
Prudence’s shoulders drop an inch. Her lips part in a small, grateful smile.
Cillian extends his hand to Prudence next. She takes it, and I watch her meet his eyes as I’ve taught her. It’s difficult for her, I can tell. Everything in her training screams that she should lower her gaze before a man of authority. Instead, she holds steady.
“Happy birthday,” she says. “I hope this evening brings you joy.”
The formality is quintessentially Prudence, and Cillian’s mouth curves. “Thank you. And welcome to the family.” He turns his sharp gaze on me, and the silent demand is clear—we’re having a conversation about this later.
Declan leans against the far wall with his arms folded over his chest, appraising Prudence with the hard focus of a man sizing up a recruit. He gives me a nod—short, decisive—then turns his gaze to her. “Welcome.” One word, but from Declan, it might as well be an embrace.
Saoirse, beside him, is less restrained. She offers a smile and a wave that carries real openness. I don’t miss how her blue eyes linger on Prudence’s face—one rescued woman identifying another.
Prudence waves back, shyly.
Lorcan appears with two glasses—whiskey for me, sparkling water for Prudence. He presses the water into her hand and winks. “Start with the easy stuff. We’ll corrupt you later.”
She takes a small sip, and her eyes go wide. “The water has bubbles.”
“Carbonation,” Lorcan explains. “They force air into the water. Makes it fizzy.”
She holds the glass up to the overhead fixture and watches the tiny streams of bubbles rise through the liquid. The delighton her face is so pure, so unguarded, that Lorcan catches my eye and mouths,she’s a keeper.
I nod once. She is.
Cillian taps a knife against his glass, and the room hushes. “I’ll keep this mercifully brief,” he says, which gets a laugh. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for the whiskey, which I intend to drink all of. And thank you to my wife, who organized this shindig against my explicit instructions.”
Nora shrugs one shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Glasses rise. Cillian drinks, and the conversation resumes, and the private room fills with the noisy rhythm of a group of family and close friends who communicate in jabs and laughter.
“Are all pubs this loud?” Prudence asks Lorcan.
“The good ones are.” He slides a plate of food toward her. “Try the fries. They’re legendary.”
She picks up a single thick-cut fry, golden and salted—and bites into it with the deliberation of a scientist running a controlled experiment.
Her eyes go wide.
“These are…delicious.”
