But from across the hall, she watched Étaín glance down at Donal’s hand. At the ring. Then back at his face.
Aingeal went cold. The ring was Donal O’Raida’s. It was proof of identity. She turned away before anyone could read too much in her face. Had she been blind?
She had asked for truth. Demanded oaths. Tested him in council. Watched him answer. Watched him lie? No. Not lie. She did not know that. She knew only that parts of him did not fit neatly where he claimed they belonged.
But how much had she let pass because he had stood beside her well? Because he had saved grain, steadied frightened villagers, made boys laugh, kissed her until the world seemed briefly remade?
By the evening meal, the strain had become unbearable. The hall felt too close. Cups struck wood. A boy at the lower tables laughed too loudly. One of the hounds beneath the bench whined for scraps. Fire snapped in the long hearth.
Étaín sat two places down from Donal and asked some small question about the weather in the southern marsh, light as ever, impossible to rebuke. He answered with his usual grave courtesy.
Aingeal heard none of the words clearly.
She saw only the careful way Étaín listened.
The brief tension in Donal’s hand.
The silence beneath what was spoken.
Aingeal excused herself early and went up to the battlements, hoping the cold wind might scour the feeling from her.
She heard footsteps behind her and knew it was Donal. He came to stand at her side as though he had every right in the world to do so. And she wanted him to be there. The wind was sharp above the wall. Torches bent and spat.
“Aingeal,” he said quietly.
She did not answer.
He waited. “Has Étaín spoken to you?”
It was like throwing wood onto a fire.
She turned her head slowly. “Should she have?”
Something tightened in his face.
“You hide behind silence.”
His eyes did not leave her face. “Do I?”
“Yes. You stand in my hall and at my side. You ride my borders. You let men trust you, and boys follow you, and my people grow used to the sight of you, and all the while the truth of you stays locked away where no one may touch it.”
He drew a slow breath. “If you have an accusation, make it.”
“I have a hundred.”
“Name one.”
She gripped the stone railing hard enough that her fingers ached. “You let yourself matter. That is accusation enough.”
Something flickered across his face. Hurt, perhaps. Or recognition. “That is not a crime.”
“No?” She turned on him. “Then what would you call it when a man means to leave and still lets a castle shape itself around him as though he belongs there?”
He went still. “I told you I would leave.”
“Yes. You told me many things. Enough to keep me quiet. Enough to make me accept your nearness. Enough to letme think I understood the terms of it. But never enough to understand you.”
His jaw tightened. “You ask for certainty where I cannot give it.”
