Page 72 of Three Irish Kings
“It is for me. I don’t like being pandered to. And I won’t sugarcoat things just because you’re a baby.”
“I’m not a baby.” She pouts.
I want to drape her over my lap, spank that ample ass, and fuck the brattiness right out of her.
I look away, finishing my burger.
“So, what am I supposed to do all day?”
“I guess there’s a library I could show you. Assuming you can read.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Show me the library.”
I stand up and put the dishes in the sink. I’ll deal with them later.
I walk up the stairs.
After a moment, she follows.
I head into the last room of the house, the only room I don’t have frequently cleaned.
I turn the knob.
The door sticks from lack of use, and I have to use my shoulder to pop it open.
It doesn’t occur to me until I’m standing in the middle of the room, illuminated by the sunlight coming in through the skylight, that this is the first time I’ve been in the library since Ma died.
I have no idea what Ma saw in my father, but he was enamored by her. I’d heard, growing up, that she was his only weakness. When she died, he lost his mind, became more unhinged, scary. It has only gotten worse as time goes by.
A memory washes over me, unbidden, and I stand stock-still, almost able to see the scene in real time.
My mother, standing at the bookshelf, a paperback in her left hand, reading softly. My father, his chin on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist.
How old had I been when I’d seen that? Ten? Maybe younger.
“Liam? Are you...all right?”
I blink, coming back to reality, and I turn to face Isla.
“Of course, I am.” My voice sounds thinner than I’d planned it to, almost rough.
She looks at me a moment longer. “It’s dusty in here.”
“I don’t let the maid clean it.”
“Why not?”
I don’t answer, and she walks around the large room, looking at the spines of all the books.
The bookshelves line the walls.
My mother was an avid reader, and my father could never deny her anything.
So, the little three-bedroom house he’d bought when they first got married turned into a two-bedroom and a library when she was told she was unable to have more children.
Cillian had come along just after, and she’d taken him in like he was her own. To his credit, Da had, too.
“It was my mother’s.” I’m not sure why I'm telling her this. “My father built it for her after her final miscarriage.”
