Page 52 of Twisted Enemy
It’s a fair question, but it hits me like a bowl of ice-cold water.
“You had hard work to do,” Granny says. “And you deserved a chance to get it done without fending for your little sister.”
Hard work.
I’ve never thought of Ireland as work. Ireland was learning the language, a daily puzzle that kept my mind from other things. Ireland was traipsing across green hills and over castle ruins, adventures that exhausted my body. Ireland was learning to knit (which never took) and to bake bread (another domestic failure) and finally, finally, finally to sleep through the night without waking—but only if a light was on.
“We both did hard things,” Granny says.
I remember all the people we met while we stayed in Donegal—endless rounds of aunts and uncles and cousins. Granny invited the women in for a cuppa. She kept a fine bottle at the back of the cupboard for the men. And every child who crossed our threshold got a heavy slice of soda bread, spread thick with butter and glistening jam.
Over and over, Granny told relatives about our life in Baltimore—how Da was leading the clan there, how the Canton Crew was growing. I didn’t understand at the time, but she was building support for her son.
She wanted a pledge of soldiers so Da could beat the bratva. Everyone in County Donegal knew Lynch men held their own in a fight. Mad Robbie Malloy even killed a man at a bare-knuckles match down in Cork.
But the clan wasn’t interested in bleeding for a war across the ocean. Granny did better at raising funds.
She came home with jewelry from the women and banknotes from the men. She kept the Lynch clan alive in America, long before I handed over money from my Red Cap raids.
Granny picks up her knitting now. She works a full row, the needles clacking their soft song. I shred another stem of grass and another and another.
“It wasn’t fair,” I finally say.
I mean that it wasn’t fair to have left Breagha behind—regardless of Noreen, regardless of Mam. But Granny says, “It wasn’t. And when the Bad Men stand before St. Peter, they’ll finally account for their sins. But you need to remember,a chroí. None of it was ever your fault.”
I wish I had my grandmother’s simple faith.
I wish I could spend the rest of the day lying on this soft green lawn, shredding blades of grass until my fingers are stained green. I wish I could eat lunch with Granny and watch over her while she takes her afternoon nap. I wish I could take the rosary from her nightstand and get down on my knees and mutter the prayers I learned as a child.
But I have other obligations. I need to follow up with Carlotta Mirabelli. The professor wrote back over the weekend, saying she was intrigued by my concept for Ariadne’s Daughters. I’ve delayed sending her details, because I’m terrified my project will fail before it has truly begun.
When I stand, my thighs ache, a whispered reminder of everything I let Cole do to me last night.Master. I called my husbandMaster. And I didn’t die of shame.
“There you go,” Granny says, settling her knitting in her lap.
“What?”
“Your cheeks. You’re blushing again.”
Of course, that makes me flush even harder. “That’s the sun,” I say. “Next time I’ll bring a fashionable hat like you have.”
She laughs and I kiss her cheek and tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. As I pass through the house, Mrs. Watson is putting together a tray for lunch—a white-bread sandwich with the crusts neatly trimmed and half an apple sliced into crescents.
My own stomach rumbles as I reach the gate. The hired guards give me polite nods, but they wait for me to work the biometric locks on my own. I admire their dedication to security.
As I step onto the pavement, I glance toward the corner. A too-small boy is walking a too-big dog, an excited black lab that’s straining at its leash. The child raises his hand to wave at me, and I start to wave back. The dog takes advantage of its owner’s distraction to break free.
“Stop, Smoky!” the kid cries. “Come back!”
The lab gallops down the sidewalk, leash streaming out behind him. The guards snap to attention, raising their weapons.
“Smoky!” the boy screams. “No!”
The dog skids to a stop by my feet, snuffling at my shoes, at my knees, at my crotch. His tail is wagging like he’s trying to take flight. His leash pools on the pavement.
“Smoky,” I say. “Sit.”
The dog sits for approximately one human heartbeat. That gives me a chance, though, to collect his leather strap.
