The corner of Jory’s mouth twitched in an almost smile.
“The empire will get their shipments, smaller than they’d like of course, not enough to draw attention.”
Jory nodded once. “Keeping up appearances,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“And the neighbouring estates?”
“They’ll hear nothing different,” Ultán said. “Halverton wasn’t one for socialising, I doubt they’ll even notice there’s been a change of management.”
Jory leaned back slightly, considering.
“And in practice?” he asked. “Who’s giving the orders?”
Ultán met his gaze.
“I am.”
Jory studied him for a moment, then gave a small, decisive nod.
“Right,” he said. “So what do you need me for?”
“I know how to write his letters, manage his books,” Ultán said. “But I don’t know how to manage the estate. You do.”
That drew a flicker of surprise.
“You want me back?”
“I want you running this place properly,” Ultán said. “As estate manager.”
Jory’s eyebrows shot up, mouth twitching into that almost-smile again. “I’d like that,” he said. The smile faltered, his lips tightening. “I should be honest with you, though.”
“Go on,” Ultán said.
“I’ve had my troubles since I left here,” Jory said, beating about the bush. His eyes met Aoife’s, and she smiled encouragingly. He took a shaky breath and sat up straighter. “I’m three days sober,” he said. “I haven’t touched a drop sinceyou stood up to that monster, Aoife. Figured if you can face what scares you, so can I.”
Warmth rose in her face. “I’m glad,” she said.
The next few hours were filled with plans for the future of the estate and the county. Aoife fetched books she’d read on related topics in the library, and they spent several long hours discussing how to survive the winter and to protect the murreroot crop next year. It was difficult work, making decisions that affected so many people, without knowing what the right decision was. Not caring, as Halverton had, would make such choices easier.
With that finished, Aoife needed fresh air and dirt beneath her fingernails. She was in the gardens, the basket beside her already heavy with herbs, when a small, squealing figure slammed into her.
“Maire!” she laughed, wrapping her arms around the blur of limbs. Maire clung tight, and Aoife sat up with the girl in her lap. Eoin arrived a moment later, rolling his eyes at his sister’s exuberance.
Aoife handed each of them a cucumber. “Try these.”
They eyed the vegetables with deep suspicion before taking large bites. Maire’s face lit up. Eoin brandished his cucumber like a sword and chased her across the grass. Their laughter filled the garden. Even after only a few days of solid meals, their cheeks were rounder, their eyes brighter.
Her father appeared at the gate. “I was going to bring them tomorrow,” he said, smiling, “but they wouldn’t wait.”
Maire froze mid-laugh. Aoife followed her gaze to an upper window; Halverton was watching them.
Aoife crouched beside her sister. “Don’t be frightened,” she said gently. “He rarely leaves those rooms.”
Her father rested a hand on Maire’s shoulder. The moment passed.
That evening, she and Clíona sat side by side in the servants’ hall after dinner: Clíona sewing a hem, and Aoife mixing a poultice for the cook’s bad knee. The hall was warm, filled with quiet voices and the faint crackle of the fire.
