Page 131 of When the Sky Breaks

Irene snorted derisively.

“Excuse me?” Ansel turned on her, eyes narrowing. “Something wrong?”

“Such a resume,” Irene repeated, scowl etching farther into her features.

“We should eat,” Da said, clapping his hands together and pulling out a chair at the head of the table. “Sorcha, come here. Cavan, get her a cushion.”

Irene clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow—immediately drawing every eye in the room.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Sorcha asked as she sat in the chair Da pulled back, tucking the cushion from Cavan behind her.

“Irene, be polite,” Da prompted.

But she just hurried to serve dinner and refused to respond.

Sorcha tried to eat the stew Irene gave her. She truly tried. But it was heavy—beef and beer with potatoes and turnip. The bread was slathered with tallow.

I watched her eyes glaze as tried to focus on the conversation. But then suddenly she stumbled to her feet and heaved into the coal bin.

“Sorcha.” I was on my feet in an instant, hands on her back, soothing.

“Go fetch her a wet cloth,” Da told Cavan.

Sorcha retched again, then took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started to apologize.

Before she could get a word out Irene snapped, “You ungrateful bitch!”

And suddenly Da, Ansel, and I all had weapons drawn. I angled my body so Sorcha was largely concealed from Irene’s line of sight, pistol in one hand, the other still resting protectively on her lower back.

“I’d reconsider that statement if I were you, Mrs. Doherty,” Ansel said, with that calm, unnatural tone he usually reserved for interrogating prisoners and lying his way into expensive hotels.

“I spent three hours today making that dinner,” Irene replied, tone unrepentant and laced with venom, “and an hour fetching that coal from the village. And what now? Ruined? Because she can’t hold her stomach.”

“She is your sovereign,” Ansel said, drawing the hammer back on his pistol for emphasis, “and she has been fighting tooth and nail to keep the heir to her dynasty safe and well while her body tries to kill them both. So you will show her due respect.”

“Why should I?” Irene spat.

“Irene, surely this isn’t how you want to go about it.” Da’s tone was placating, gentle, but he still had a knife in his hand and looked ready to use it.

“It is,” Irene insisted. “This is absolutely how I want to go about it.”

“Go about what?” Sorcha asked, peering around my shoulder.

“Telling you that you killed my husband,” Irene replied sharply.

“She has done no such thing,” Ansel said.

“Ma, it wasn’t her fault,” Cavan insisted.

“You stay out of it, boy!” Irene snapped.

“Cavan, go into town and book rooms for them at the Port Bar,” Da instructed. “Now.”

Cavan slipped out as the standoff continued. I saw tears well up in Irene’s eyes, leaking out onto her cheeks—a jarring contrast to the fury in her expression.

“Four months ago, he died,” Irene hissed. “He died because you ran away. You wouldn’t listen. You married my bloody nephew instead of anyone suitable. Bratty upstart!”

“Watch your mouth,” I snapped.