Page 25 of The Pirate Queen

“No. But it makes me a bastard and you an heir. It’s why you live in the castle and I don’t.”

“It’s not a castle. It’s a tower house,” she argues.

Donal laughs and she thinks it’s a pleasant sound. She’s heard mean laughter before. She knows the difference.

“Everyone on Clare calls it a castle. Haven’t you seen where I live?”

“A house?”

“That’s a polite word for hut. Or cottage, if you want to be nice about it. But the rest of us don’t have three stories and two chimneys and a garret roof made of slate. It’s one big smoky room with a cooking pit in the floor for us. Thatch roofs and dirt floors too.”

Every trip to the village has been with her mother or father or Cook. And never once has she been invited into a home, so she doesn’t know what to say. It sounds like he is accusing her of something.

Grace picks an apple from the bag and tears off a chunk of bread. She sits on the edge of the bed to ponder this new information. The apple is soft and wrinkled and doesn’t have much flavor. No doubt it sat in a barrel in the cellar all winter. But now that she’s taken a bite, her stomach declares its hunger and she takes three more, chewing slowly and swallowing quickly. Donal watches her finish the apple, core and all, then start on the bread. It at least was baked this morning.

“Doesn’t matter,” she finally says, wiping breadcrumbs from her skirt. “I bet your house smells like peat smoke, same as mine.”

He considers this for a moment, then nods, acknowledging her point.

Grace passes the waterskin when he reaches for it. He gulps and gulps, then finally hands it back, significantly lighter.

“Why did he bring you this time?” Donal asks.

“Because I keep asking.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not it. I keep asking him to stay and he never lets me.”

“You don’t want to sail?”

“I hate it. Makes me sick. Most times Da leaves a bucket in here for me. I’d rather be home with my mam. Playing with my dog. Working in the garden or watching the sheep. Anywhere but here.”

Donal’s confession gives Grace the opportunity to ask something she’s been curious about. “Do you have another da?”

“No one has two fathers.”

“I mean does your mother have a husband?”

He frowns. Then nods. “Éamon.”

“And he lets you come on these trips?”

“Doesn’t have a choice, does he? He’s not my da. My father is chieftain—same as yours—and everyone in the clan does as he says.” He squints at her. “ ’Cept you. Seems like you do whatever you want.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’re here and not at home where he wants you. I just don’t understand why.”

Grace is tired now. Her eyes heavy and her body sore. So she scoots farther back on the bed and leans her head against the wall, her father’s pillow propped behind her aching back.

“I think he wants me to hate it so I won’t ask to come with him anymore.”

“And do you? Hate it, I mean.”

“No. I love it. I think it’s great fun.”

“Well, I think it’s scary,” he says. “I don’t want to die underwater.”

“Da won’t let that happen.”