Aoife stayed crouched on the ground. A hand touched her shoulder from behind. She stood, turned, and Cormac wrapped her in his arms. She sank into it, breathing in the smell of ash bark and wet leather. It wasn’t pleasant, but she wished she could bottle it all the same.
Cormac broke the hug at last.
“Where’s my father?” she asked.
“He went home,” Cormac said.
She nodded.
His jaw tightened. “This isn’t right. Confinement or death. What sort of choice is that?” He looked at her hard. “I can hide you. We could run.”
“I need time to think.”
He stopped dead. “You can’t be considering it? You can’t go live with that monster, and fifty lashes would kill you.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Perhaps death is better than a life in a cage.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But Lord Halverton thinks he’s given me no choice. I want it to be my decision, and I’m not ready to make it yet.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
“Can we not talk about it?” she asked.
He shut his mouth, eyes full of frustration, and they walked on in silence.
They reached her house, almost identical to Jory’s from the outside, except its roof sagged in the middle. Her father was at the hearth, pouring hot water over dried nettles, making a tea to quiet the stomach, or at least make it think it was full.
The room was dark, smoke-stained, lit only by the glow of the fire. In summer it was stifling to cook inside; in winter itnever gave enough heat. Still, Aoife loved the personal touches. A trestle table stood in the middle, its top a single piece of wood her father had spent hours sanding and polishing until it shone. It was worse for wear now, but in places it was still smooth beneath her hand. Around it a cluster of mismatched dining chairs, united by the small animals carved into the ears by her grandfather.
On the wall hung simple stitchwork pictures of plants she, her mother, and her sister Bríd had made before her mother, Bríd, and her brother had all been taken by the fever.
It was nothing special, but it was theirs.
Her father sat down at the table and added a shot of whiskey to his tea, one of the few things coin could still buy. Aoife snatched the cup from his hand. “You can’t turn to drink now. You can’t be another Jory. Eoin and Maire are relying on you.”
He sank into his chair. “I don’t know how to keep them alive.” Her father ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t risk stealing again, not after today. My work’s worthless.” He snatched up the bag of coins from the table and hurled it across the room. It hit the floor with a clatter.
Aoife’s chest tightened. In that moment, she knew for certain she couldn’t risk the flogging. If she died, or was too broken to work, her family would have nothing. She needed to help them. And the village too. She didn’t know yet how that was possible, but vile as it was, perhaps getting close to Lord Halverton was the opportunity she needed.
She crouched beside her father. “You can do this. Maire already knows where to forage; I’ve shown her. And Eoin’s brilliant at finding pignuts.”
“I can’t ask that of them,” he muttered.
“We can’t shield them from what’s happening,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Cormac stepped forward. “I’ll help,” he said.
Her father shook his head. “You can’t. You’ve your own parents to think of.”
“You’re family too,” Cormac said.
Aoife reached for her father’s hand, squeezing it tightly, the ridges of old burns pressing against her skin. “It’s going to be all right.”
Aoife rose to her feet and gave Cormac a look that told him to follow. Outside, the air was cool, the evening light fading. Aoife breathed it in, turned to Cormac and smiled.
“Race you to the oak.” Her feet were moving before she had finished speaking.
