Instead, she said, too briskly, “Étaín, you are cold and dusty, and if I do not get you indoors at once, you will charm the household into neglecting its work.”
“Too late,” Étaín said. “They are already ruined.”
The servants laughed.
Aingeal was absurdly grateful. She drew her cousin toward the hall.
Donal stepped aside to let them pass. As they did, his gaze met Aingeal’s for the briefest instant.
Inside, warmth closed around them. Servants appeared with towels, hot ale, questions, and smiles. Étaín answered all of it with such easy delight that within moments she had three maids laughing, a kitchen boy blushing, and Tomas looking both exasperated and amused.
At first, Aingeal was only glad. Glad for her cousin’s voice in the castle. Glad for the way even Brennach’s heavy face softened when Étaín threatened to braid his beard in his sleep.
But as the afternoon lengthened, something else threaded itself through the gladness.
A sudden awareness of how much she had to lose.
Étaín wanted to see everything: hall, gardens, her old chamber, the repaired walls, the new boys in the yard. She wanted broth, gossip, news of marriages, deaths, and scandals. Aingeal, laughing despite herself, gave her nearly all of it.
Yet even in those easy hours, she found herself listening for Donal. His voice in the lower court. A murmur near the hall when Tomas asked about the eastern path.
Each time, Aingeal’s attention betrayed her and turned.
Each time, Étaín noticed and curiosity sparked.
Aingeal had seen it: the way Étaín’s eyes sharpened when his name was mentioned, the way she listened when Tomas spoke of his usefulness on the border, the way she glanced toward the yard where he stood with Seamus and two boys.
It was only curiosity.
That was what Aingeal told herself.
Only curiosity.
At supper, the hall sat easier after the raid had passed without fresh alarm. Benches were full, voices warm, the fire built high against the damp cold outside.
Aingeal sat with Étaín near enough that their sleeves brushed. Donal sat at Aingeal’s right, the place they had chosen so the castle would grow used to seeing them aligned.
Étaín noticed.
Her gaze passed from Aingeal to Donal and back in a flash of understanding too quick for anyone else. Then she smiled and turned to her broth.
Aingeal hated being watched so closely, but hated even more that she could not conceal it.
The meal was half over before Étaín spoke directly to Donal. The subject was small: a southern road washed out beyond the marsh, a rider delayed two days by bogged ground. Yet the exchange drew Aingeal’s awareness taut.
“You have traveled those roads?” Étaín asked.
“I have traveled enough roads to distrust most of them.”
“That is not the same answer.”
“No,” he said. “It is only the safer one.”
Étaín laughed.
Donal’s eyes held the attentive stillness he had when he listened in earnest.
And Aingeal, against all sense, felt the first true stab of jealousy. It coiled in her gut like a snake. It was not large, but she knew the shape of it at once and feared what it could become.
