Page 132 of When the Sky Breaks

“What are you on about, woman?” Ansel asked, anger finally creeping into his tone.

“My husband Finn Doherty served in the Inner Court gardens,” Irene said, voice shaking with grief and rage. “For more than a hundred and sixty years he served there. Nothing fancy. No title. Just a bloody good groundskeeper. And then when you left? When you wouldn’t listen? She took it out on him. She killed everyone in her Court who’d ever worked or lived with Glen, with Cormac, with Ansel, with you.”

I froze. Iksura had killed her own people when Sorcha had rejected the false claims about her Outer Court title.

“Petty, psychotic tyrant,” Ansel muttered.

I nodded immediate agreement, then glanced at Sorcha’s belly. This latest news of Iksura’s brutality only made me even more grateful that Sorcha’d had the fortitude to say resist, to disprove the edict, to move the Court, to keep our baby.

“I didn’t kill your husband,” Sorcha said, pushing past me, voice steady and even. “Iksura did. And you can blame me all you want. But it’s misplaced. And misdirected. If you want to be angry, go to Russia. And leave your tired, sick, pregnant High Lady alone to keep this utterly insane quest for absolute sovereignty that Iksura has undertaken from succeeding and ruining us all.”

The Port Bar was old—friendly but drafty. The interior was smoke filled and loud. Sorcha balked immediately in the doorway. Cavan was gamely trying to arrange plates for everyone on a tiny, precarious table in the back corner.

“Neal, there’s no way I’m keeping food down with the smoke,” Sorcha murmured.

“We’ll eat in our rooms,” I said as we reached Cavan at the table.

“Barkeep says that’s against policy,” Cavan replied, blue eyes wide and apologetic.

“Barkeep says that’s against policy because you don’t know how to ask,” I replied.

I turned and stalked back to the front host stand, and a few minutes later a harried-looking dishwasher came to gather up our plates and take them upstairs.

“What did you do?” Cavan asked, voice awestruck.

“Extra money, play the pregnancy card and flash the wedding ring, use the words familial crisis,” I said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

And so the four of us—Cavan, Ansel, Sorcha, and I—sat in our rented room and ate together.

“You got the food right,” Sorcha noted.

“Neal sent a list ahead,” Cavan replied. “Uncle Glen’s had me reciting it like a litany for the last week. I tried to get Ma to cook off it this afternoon, but she wouldn’t listen. I swear she wouldn’t listen.”

“Shouldn’t you be out with some big noble family on the Continent?” Sorcha asked.

“I was,” Cavan said. “In Toulouse with a really lovely seer named Arielle and her husband. They had kids on the estate, grandkids too. They kept goats. Big vineyard. But when we got word you were coming here, Uncle Glen called me back. He said nothing would beat working for the High Lady when she had her first babe.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” I said. “Cavan, how do you feel about cats?”

He went to reply, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. A nod from Ansel, and Cavan went to answer it, revealing Irene and Glen standing in the wood-paneled hallway.

Sorcha stiffened, putting down her food and wrapping both arms protectively around her belly.

“If you’re not here to prostrate and apologize, go home,” Ansel called.

“I’m here to make amends,” Irene said through gritted teeth.

“Tone doesn’t sound like it,” Sorcha replied sharply.

“Finn dying wasn’t your fault.” Irene recited the words like they were rehearsed.

“And?” Glen prompted.

“I’m sorry for calling you—” Irene swallowed hard. “A bitch.”

“And?” Glen prompted once more.

“It’ll take a week’s work to settle up the cottage,” Irene said. “If you sign the papers I can do the work for you. Buy the furniture, stock the pantry, find you a kitchen maid if you want one.”