Mrs Harrow followed her gaze. “Go on.” She coaxed Aoife. “You’ll only make it worse if he realises he’s been overheard.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she walked toward her room.
At the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.
Mrs Harrow had entered the room as well and, with a soft click, shut the door fully behind her.
She couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
The storm battered against the windows, wind rattling the panes, rain lashing the glass in uneven bursts. Aoife lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, Halverton’s words circling in her mind.
‘If I hadn’t, they would have increased my quota.’
‘Exports are necessary.’
‘You’re too young and too naive.’
She turned onto her side, pulling the blankets tighter around her, but it did nothing to quiet the unease.
What if he were right?
The thought came reluctantly, but once it had taken hold, she couldn’t shake it.
He had the numbers. The figures. He understood how the system worked in a way she didn’t. There were likely pressures beyond the estate, demands from people she would never meet, consequences she couldn’t fully grasp.
Cormac had said as much, in his own way. That she could be naive. That she saw the world as she wanted it to be, not as it was. Aoife pressed her lips together. Maybe she did. Maybe there were forces at play she didn’t understand. Maybe the quotas had to be met. Maybe there were reasons, practical, unavoidable reasons, that meant not everyone could be fed.
She pictured the thin faces of the villagers. The way a mother would push her portion toward her child and claim she wasn’t hungry.
Even if he was right about the system, about quotas, about exports, about the pressures from beyond the estate, what did that matter if the result was the same?
People were starving.
People were dying.
And it could be prevented.
She closed her eyes, her hands curling into the blankets. She might be naive, but there was no excuse in the world that could justify letting people die of starvation when it could so easily be prevented.
The storm had blown itself out by dawn. The lawns glittered with puddles that reflected a pale sky, and the air smelled of wet earth.
Aoife was still pulling herself upright when a soft knock came at her door.
“Come in,” Aoife called, expecting Clara.
But it was Mrs Harrow who stepped inside carrying a basin of steaming water.
“I thought I’d see to you myself today,” Mrs Harrow said before Aoife could ask. “Clara’s gone to help in the laundry. Stormy nights leave a great deal of work behind.”
Aoife nodded, though the housekeeper’s tone suggested this was only partly true.
Mrs Harrow set the basin on the small table by the window. “Come now, wash your face. You look like you hardly slept.”
Aoife obeyed. The wet cloth warmed her chilled skin. When she glanced sideways, she caught Mrs Harrow studying her with an assessing, almost wary tenderness.
“About last night—”
Mrs Harrow lifted a dress from the wardrobe. “Nightmares visit many in this house, miss. They’re no business of anyone but the one who carries them.” Her voice softened, but the boundary in it was firm.
