Page 72 of Irish Reign

She takes her napkin from her lap. Folds it into quarters. Opens it again.

“Aiofe?” I ask again.

And in a tiny voice, so soft I have to catch my breath to hear, she asks, “Did Samantha leave because of me?”

The instant the words are out of her mouth, I’m bowled over by a tidal wave of relief. I don’t need to elaborate on Fairfax’s book. I don’t have to find words that work for a child.

But the relief is immediately swamped by shame. There’s no reason on earth Aiofe should believe Samantha left because of her. I’m an eejit for not addressing the matter sooner. “No,” I say, too fast. Too loud. “Samantha’s leaving has nothing to do with you.”

“She wasn’t angry with me?”

“Why would Samantha possibly be angry with you?”

“Fairfax took me to the Rittenhouse. I went swimming in the pool, and I got to spend the night at the hotel. But Samantha had to work. She couldn’t play with us. And when I got home, sh— she was gone.”

She was gone because she and I fought in the foyer. She was gone because I couldn’t hold my tongue. She was gone because I said things I’ll never repeat to this child.

How long has Aiofe been believing she was at fault? It never dawned on me she might think Samantha would be jealous of yet another stay at the Rittenhouse.

“Samantha didn’t leave because you went to the hotel,” I say. “I promise.”

Aiofe nods solemnly. But she whispers to her plate, “I miss her. A lot.”

I want to say that’s ridiculous. Aiofe lived with me for seven years before she ever met Samantha. Fairfax is still taking care of her, morning, noon, and night.

But Aiofe’s lost a lot in the last few months—Samantha, sure, but Birte and Grace too. Aiofe’s clothes burned at Thornfield, and all her sketchbooks too. She only kept her manky stuffed rabbit because she had it with her in Fairfax’s cottage, the night of the fire.

She’s suffered. And she’s a child, who brought none of this on herself. So I answer with an honesty that catches me by surprise. “Yeah, little one. I miss her too.”

“Where did she go?”

“She’s in Dover. In Delaware. The place where she works, where Liam used to drive her.”

“Where’s that, on a map?”

I take out my phone. And before I can pull up a general map, I think of something that might comfort the girl. I open the tracking app, the one I set when we were in the Rittenhouse, when my eyes were burned and threats seemed to lurk in every unseen corner.

A dial spins on the phone screen, the app working its magic to locate the distant tracker. For a moment, I think Samantha’s erased the connection on her end. There’s no reason for her to keep it. She’s not mine to follow any longer. She never truly was.

But the dial stops moving. A tiny red drawing pin hovers over a field of green labeled Diamond Freeport.

“There she is,” I say to Aiofe.

The child levels a finger over the pin. When she finally looks up from the screen, she’s smiling. “Thank you, Uncle Braiden.”

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“May I be excused from the table?”

I should make her finish her dinner. I should tell her to carry her plate into the kitchen. I should warn her it’s time to getready for bed, and she has forty-five minutes for reading before turning out the lights.

But instead, I say, “You may.”

And I stare at the screen long after Aiofe’s left, wondering why Samantha’s still working at a quarter past eight on a Monday night in the middle of the feckin’ summer.

34

SAMANTHA

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