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Three years of detachment, knowing full well—though unspoken—that I was chosen because I’m dispensable. Bran, with his relentless pestering, kept me anchored to the truth: being expendable doesn’t strip away worth. He drives me mad, but I’d never truly wish him gone.

“In all seriousness, I can’t wait to meet her,” Bran says suddenly, as if the thought had been simmering since our earlier conversation and only now spilled over.

“Who?” I ask, though I know who he’s referring to.

“The one from back home who probably keeps all of you in line.”

He speaks with more truth than he knows.

I glance at him, shaking my head. “And here I thought you didnae read my letters?” The smile tugging at the corner of my mouth betraying my attempt at annoyance.

There is sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “I’m simply saying… she must be worth meeting for her to be cared for so well… and for her to keep a smile on your face from across the sea.”

I don’t respond, and Bran doesn’t push the issue further. With each passing moment, anticipation settles in—home awaits, and I hope she’ll forgive my prolonged silence.

Even though I don’t speak this truth aloud, it lingers in every quiet moment—a presence I could never escape.

She’s worth everything and more.

6

Shadows at the Door

Triona

Present Day

Wednesday, 23 April 1823

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara

Istep into the house through the open library door, ignoring Saoirse’s futile attempt to shield me from my mother’s impending wrath.

I pause, letting the stillness of the room settle over me. It’s the quietest place in the house—my father no doubt left the doors open to air it out, as he always does. His quiet thoughtfulness never fails to warm me.

I note the room remains untouched as I run my fingers along the familiar spines of the books. It feels like a sanctuary, a place that has served as my refuge since childhood. Lessons with Deidre turned it into my second bedroom, and many nights, I’ve fallen asleep here amid the pages.

I sigh and make my way toward the kitchen. Passing through the gallery room, I catch a fleeting glimpse of movement outside the windows. By the time I turn to look more closely, the figures—if there were any—have vanished. It seemed like two grown men walking together, which makes no sense. My brothers and Eamon are still out front.

Frustration stirs as I reach the foyer outside the kitchen. Deciding my mother deserves it, I shout, “Ellen Sinclair!” She abhors shouting indoors, and using her full name is the ultimate provocation.

The foyer is barren by design, maintained like a museum display rather than a lived-in space. From here, I hear hurried footsteps approaching. My father rounds the corner first, his face radiant with delight. He closes the distance between us in a few long strides.

“Mo nighean bheag!” he exclaims, pulling me into a crushing hug. Before I can return the embrace, he lifts me off the ground and spins me in a circle.

When he sets me down, he places his hands on either side of my face and plants a kiss on each cheek. “I missed you too, Da,” I say, tears of joy springing to my eyes. He gently wipes them away. “But we’ve discussed this. I’m not so little anymore.”

“Ye’ll always be my little lassie, Tri,” he insists. Then, leaning close, he whispers, “But even as yer Da, I cannae protect ye from what’s comin’.” Straightening, he glances over his shoulder as a hand clasps his arm. My eyes widen as he mouths a silent ‘sorry’.

My mother’s radiant figure steps into view, her expression a blend of disapproval and elegance. Her gaze fixes on my father with practiced suspicion. “What did ye tell her, James?” she demands. Her uncanny ability to predict his every move is as sharp as ever.

Sensing trouble brewing, I intervene, slipping to her side and enveloping her in a hug. She immediately reciprocates, her hand rubbing my back in comfort before pulling away to inspect me.

“Hi, Ma,” I breathe. Her composure falters, and a tear escapes down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly. “I missed ye so much,” she confesses, her voice thick with emotion.

Grinning brightly, I reply, “I missed you, too.” She gently pinches my chin, a familiar gesture from my childhood. “Ye’re truly a sight, Caitríona,” she says, her voice tender. “My little butterfly with emerald eyes and amber-brown hair… and a knack for gettin’ under my skin like no other.”

And there it is.