Page 102 of The Pirate Queen

Grace’s voice is tight and her eyes remain on the pile of dresses she’s folding. “Two days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t want it.”

The frown lines grow deeper as Maeve stares at the soiled undergarment. “No woman does,” she mutters.

“I don’t want to be a woman. Not yet. Not if this is what it means.”

“It only means you are now able to bear children.”

“I know.”

“Do you not want children, then?” Maeve asks. There is no judgment in her question, only curiosity.

Grace heaves an unhappy sigh and looks at the trunk that holds all her worldly possessions, all the things she must take with her to fosterage. He made his decision the night she was attacked. And now he is sending her away.

“I want to go to Spain. With Da.”

The sound her mother makes is more growl than sigh. “I have always warned you to hold your father’s promises lightly.”

Grace goes to the narrow window and peers out at the beach where Niamh waits, ready to ferry her across the bay. She sees her father directing his men as they load cargo into the hold. Once she and Donal are delivered to Rockfleet, he will continue on to Spain, where Eóin had promised to take her. He’d promised Gibraltar and paella and tempranillo grapes that taste like figs and tobacco. Ham made from black pigs and cheese made from sheep’s milk. Her father promised to show her the wild yellow macaques with their stubby tails and amber eyes and small hairless hands. She has never seen a monkey, never seen anything farther away than Galway. Grace hoped this would be her chance. Instead, she is to spend the next three years living with strangers. Her father has not taken her on Niamh since their encounter with the Esperança.

Behind her, Maeve rustles through a basket, muttering to herself.

“Why can’t he just send Donal?” Grace asks. “Isn’t it decided anyway? That he’ll be The O’Malley? Why should I be fostered as well?”

Maeve doesn’t seem to hear the question. When Grace turns to demand an answer, her mother is standing in front of her, a pile of cloth strips and a belt of soft braided wool in her hands. She holds them out, an unwanted offering.

“I need to show you,” Maeve says.

Grace shakes her head. “No.”

“The cleansing won’t go away just because you don’t like it.”

“The cleansing?” Rage, bright and hot, blooms in her chest. She takes a step forward, spitting each word like a tiny grain of salt. “I. Don’t. Feel. Clean.”

There, at the corner of Maeve’s mouth, is the fragment of a smile. But she pulls it back before Grace can assume she’s being laughed at.

“Men have other names for it, you know. Cruel names, like the ‘monthly disease’ and ‘Eve’s revenge.’ Such men often find that their wives refer to it as ‘good times’ because they’re let alone for a week. My own mam called it ‘the flowers,’ though that’s always seemed too gentle to me. It doesn’t matter what you call it. But you must learn to deal with its reality. ’Tis no friend, but it will visit you every month for many, many years regardless.”

Grace can feel the ache growing behind her eyelids—an ache to match the one low in her belly—the telltale burn of looming tears.

“Is this why he won’t look at me?” she asks.

Maeve’s voice is soft when she answers. “You are right to believe that men fear it. They do. We are the only creatures on this earth that can bleed for days but never die. Your father knows nothing of this, though. Isn’t his business. Until you marry, it will be between you and your women. You can hate it, Gráinne, or you can see it for what it is.”

“A curse?”

Maeve’s eyes are bright now—like a spring fern—and they tighten in determination. “No, bird. ’Tis power. Power to bring life into this world. But also to protect you from an unwanted touch. Remember that while you are away, should anyone put a hand to you. I have never met a man who does not fear a woman’s blood. It may be scant protection, but ’tis not nothing. Do you understand me?”

Grace does not entirely understand, but she nods anyway, and surrenders first to her mother’s embrace, then to her ministrations. She learns how to use the belt and cloth strips, how to manage this new, unwanted part of womanhood.

When they are done, Maeve helps Grace into one of her new gowns—a soft blue silk with embroidered edges. It is fitted with bell sleeves and a scooped neck. One of three gowns she will take across the bay, in addition to the fine wool dresses in her trunk that she will use for daily wear. Maeve adds a braided leather belt to accentuate her waist, but leaves Grace otherwise unadorned. She does, however, slide a silver fede ring off her right thumb and place it on the same finger of Grace’s hand.

“My mother gave it to me. And her mother before her. ’Tis yours now.” She cups Grace’s face in her hands. “We will not be so far apart as you might think.”

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