“Empty?” he said.
The word lingered between them.
“No, Aoife. Not empty.”
He took a step away from her.
He flung his arms wide, a gesture encompassing not just the room but the house and even the whole county.
“Full.”
He dropped the word softly, watching her as he said it.
He let his arms fall, eyes gleaming. “Full of your father’s life,” he went on. Aoife clenched her jaw. “Your brother’s.” Eoin’s small fists continued to pound on the door.
“Your sister’s.”
Each name settled heavily, one atop the other.
“All of them,” he said quietly, “are in my hands.”
He tilted his head slightly, and the world narrowed to the rush of her own pulse.
He gestured lazily toward the door. “The village?”
Another crack of the whip echoed faintly through the hall.
“They live or starve because I decide it.”
His gaze sharpened. “That is not emptiness, girl.” He stepped toward her again.
“That is power.”
His shadow stretched across her, swallowing the space between them, dark and suffocating.
“And do not think,” he added, more softly now, “that I have not noticed the ones you cling to in this house.”
Aoife didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
“Clara.”
A pause.
“Mrs Harrow.”
Another.
“That gardener…” He gave the faintest shrug. “Whose name I cannot be bothered to learn.”
She was almost impressed that he’d noticed.
“They breathe,” he said, “because I allow it. I hold their lives in the palm of my hand.”
He leaned closer, a quiet, terrible control in the way he held himself.
“You call me hollow,” he murmured.
