Page 133 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’ll go see the property tomorrow, and I expect it ready by Friday night,” Sorcha replied. “You’ll communicate with us only via Glen or Cavan. Understood?”

“Yes, Lady Sorcha.” Irene dipped a curtsy and ducked back down the hall.

Sixty-Two

Ansel

Islipped out while the others resumed eating and cornered Irene in the hall.

“Glen, go sit with the others,” I instructed.

A brief moment of eye contact, a quick nod, and Glen was gone. We’d spent enough decades working together to easily communicate without words.

“You thinking of hurting my girl?” I asked, backing Irene against a closed doorway.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Irene replied, still scowling.

“You called her a bitch earlier,” I said, “so excuse me for worrying.”

“I don’t like my work going to waste.” Irene straightened up and glared at me. “And I’m none too pleased about how Finn died.”

“And so if she’s dissatisfied with how you settle the cottage for them? If she’s fussy about her new kitchen maid? If she wants you to do something seemingly inconsequential like asking around to find the friendliest sheep on the island and then purchase it for her?” I asked. “Will you shout at her again then? Say she’s a spoiled royal child?”

“If she’s being unreasonable then I—” Irene began, but I didn’t let her finish.

“You will do no such thing.” My voice was so low it resonated in the walls. “Because I do not care about your opinions. I do not care about your self-aggrandizing home-keeping standards. I don’t care that you get prickly when you feel your effort isn’t being appreciated. I care that she spent the last two decades isolated from everyone because Cormac couldn’t deal with his own grief. I care that she’s spent the last six months puking her guts out and fighting hundred-and-five-degree fevers while on the road. I care that the entire future of the Outer Court—and therefore of humanity’s relationship with the supernatural—is now resting on a scared twenty-seven-year-old girl who talks to cats and barely knows how to throw a punch. And if you say so much as one harsh word toward her you will never set foot on this island again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Faelen,” Irene replied. “Whatever you say, Mr. O’Faelen.”

Sixty-Three

Neal

Icurled behind Sorcha in bed, arm over her belly, face nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

“Sorry about all this,” I said softly. “I know Islay was supposed to be when we finally caught a break.”

“Your aunt losing her temper hardly compares to cultists locking me in a storeroom or being accosted by highwaymen on the road at midnight,” Sorcha observed dryly.

“Still”—I kissed her temple—“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry Cavan’s so young and green. He’ll have me and Da to help of course but . . .”

“He’s already been training longer than I’ve been alive, Neal,” Sorcha said. “He’ll get the hang of it quick enough. Real skills are forged under pressure.”

I let out a long slow breath, the reality dawning on me. Cavan was over forty—more than a decade Sorcha’s senior. And here I was making excuses about youth and inexperience. Meanwhile Sorcha—not even thirty—was facing down the portal threat, Iksura’s machinations, and carrying the heir to her dynasty.

“Victoria took the crown at nineteen,” Sorcha said softly. “Nine years younger than me. I think about that a lot when I feel underqualified. If she could rule all Great Britain at nearing twenty then I can handle some stupid peryton and disgruntled immortals at nearing thirty.”

“I’m continually amazed, Sorcha,” I murmured, kissing behind her ear. “I love you, darling.”

“You’re my Prince Albert,” Sorcha chuckled. “Just don’t go getting sick on me before I’m even forty. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Remember what I keep promising you?” I asked gently.

“Forever,” Sorcha replied.

“Forever,” I whispered into her hair.

Sixty-Four