Page 49 of Wicked Ruin

“Two brothers, both older.”

“Ah.”

Best conversation I’ve had in weeks.

We make our way through the hall into the main reception room, where a string quartet plays in the corner, and long buffet tables line the wall. The bar is open, well-stocked, and I want none of it. Colm’s in the corner with a drink he’s barely touched, watching the room the way he always does. Not exactly surveillance, but inventory. He catches my eye and nods.

“Younger brother? He looks like you.”

“Aye, one of them. Daire’s around here somewhere too. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. Amarone or Barolo?”

“Right.” Never heard of them, but I’ll ask.

“Thank you.” She looks away.

I return a few minutes later with her glass and a sparkling water for myself.

“You don't drink?” she asks.

I shake my head but don't offer anything else.

“An Irishman who doesn’t drink?” she pushes. But before I can answer, I hear a voice behind us.

“Declan, is this your fiancée?”

I turn to find Bianca tucked under Ashland's arm, the way she always is, speaking to one of the cousins while he holds her with half his attention and listens with the other. Their ease is almost uncomfortable to be near.

“Ashland and Bianca are newly engaged,” I say. “And this is Valentina.”

“Newly engaged?” Valentina says. “How newly?”

She congratulates Bianca, takes her hand ceremoniously, then gives her a slow once-over. “Have you been fitted for your dress yet?”

Bianca flushes pink. She's a stunningly beautiful woman, and it's genuinely unclear whether what just happened was a slight or only felt like one. “I have, actually,” she says, recovering. “Something with a medieval influence—Queen Guinevere at the altar.”

“Who?” Valentina asks.

“Guinevere,” Bianca says. “Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur.”

“Ah,” Valentina says. “Very pretty.” Then, turning back, “My mother is having mine made in Valencia. She has very particular tastes.”

“I see,” Bianca says pleasantly, and doesn't say another word about it.

I remind myself that I made my choice. I made it with both eyes open, and I'd make it again. I need to stop standing in my own sitting room, mourning the life I elected not to have.

“Where do you imagine we'll live?” Valentina asks.

She's halfway through her wine, surveying the room with an expression of careful neutrality, as if cataloging things she'll have opinions about later, in private, with someone else.

“After the wedding,” she continues. “Your family seems quite tight-knit.”

“Aye,” I say. “We are.”

“I imagine something in the city,” she says. “An apartment. Somewhere with a bit more”—she searches for the word—“privacy.”

She doesn’t like them. I watch her assess them, and I think, She doesn’t like any of this.