“I—” No? Not really. I asked him to tell me whereColmwas and that was a cover for—
I didn’t even find the St. Patrick’s Day joy meter last night.
FUCK ALL OF THIS.
I clamp my hand around the coffee mug, all that napalm bubblinginto anger. I need to move, I need to run, I need to sweat and ache and push myself to dangerous physical limits.
“Can we leave now?” I ask Siobhán. She’s literally the only person in this family I can stand.
Her eyes flash between me and her brother.
And she gets a look on her face. Like she’s connecting something.
But it’s Loch who says, “We’re off.”
He shoves past me to march for the door, his arm bumping my mug.
Another spurt of coffee hits my shirt.
I stand there, glaring into the middle space.
I’m going to commit a murder at a charity 5k family fun run.
That is not how I thought I’d ruin my life. But I’m good with it.
I don’t understand anything about St. Patrick’s Day.
Loch drives us from Castle Patrick to Cork.Lochdrives us. Not a staff member. No magic used. The oddness drops into all the other oddities, their empty castle, their lone butler, their absent king.
What is going on?
We ride the long two hours in silence, me in the back with Siobhán, Finn up front with Loch. The two of them talk, and Siobhán chimes in occasionally, but I sit there and eat my almonds and keep my gaze everywhere except on the rearview mirror, the way Loch always seems to know when my eyes land there, because his crash into mine.
The Irish countryside rolls around us, tiny two-lane roads swapping for highways, framed by potent, wet greenery and a rising blue sky that swells to neon and vivid by the time we get to Cork.
Hills descend us into a city split by waterways, the lowering tiers sprinkled with multicolored cottages and buildings in red, peach, fuchsia, and blue. Flags and streamers and pennants wave fromeverywhere,a veritable assault of St. Patrick’s Day festivity, that green, white, and orange flag plastered to walls and windows, cars and streets. We weave through town, cross a bridge, and follow a stream of people that grows and grows.
Loch parks in a garage and we pour out. It’sfreezing,but I’m too much of a stubborn ass to admit I fucked up with my choice of shirt, so I blow into my hands and actively suppress my shivers as we take stairs out of the garage.
I twist alongside Loch in the stairwell. “I thought the point of all these events was to be seen by the Holiday press.”
Loch arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“So why the private drive? Are you trying to avoid them?”
“Oh, they’ll find us, no problem.”
“Then… I’m confused.”
“That’s na even a wee bit surprising, boyo.”
“Screw you.”
We hit the ground level and a park opens around us, foliage lush and ripe even in the dead of March. It’s like all the plant life surges back to riotous emerald for this. Did the King use some of St. Patrick’s Day’s magic for it?
Tents and booths are speckled throughout the park, more vibrant punches of orange and teal and pink. Signs are wedged into the grass, dozens of them, all advertising Green Hills Distillery. Why does that sound—
That’s the distillery King Malachy owns.
