Page 27 of The Pirate Queen

“It means The O’Flaherty is a right mean bastard and that he’s banned from entering Galway,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch your back while in this city. Being banned from something has never stopped an O’Flaherty from doing it.”

He takes a step, then pauses. Looks at the inscription again, then down at Grace. His beard needs trimming, but still she can see him press his tongue into one cheek, deep in thought.

“O’Flaherty has a son about your age,” he says, and though the statement means nothing to her, her father nods slowly three times.

As they reach the end of the Front Wall, Eóin turns right and leads them toward the tower, then through the wide arched doorway at its base. Two guards stand at the bottom of the stairs.

“State your business,” one demands.

Her father pats the manifest with one hand and gives Grace a reassuring squeeze with the other. “I’ve an appointment with the merchant’s agent.”

The guard squints at the wax seal like it might be a forgery. “Wait your turn,” he says. “He’s with a client.”

Instead of heading back into the light, her father stands his ground, leveling the guard with an impassive stare.

“Might be some time,” the guard says. “He’s got an Englishman up there.”

“I have nowhere else to be.”

And so they wait. Every time Grace begins to fidget, her father tightens his grip on her small hand—not so much that it hurts, but enough to make her stand still. Donal might as well be a statue or a ghost. Clearly he has been taught what to do. Grace finds the waiting worse than the storm. Worse than waking on the floor, stiff and damp and cold. This standing and doing nothing, when she could be out exploring the market, is maddening. Just when she starts to wonder if the guard has lied and the merchant isn’t busy at all, they hear someone coming down the spiral stone steps in front of them.

A finely dressed man and a boy about Grace’s age. The aforementioned Englishman, she assumes. Her father stiffens beside her and his grip becomes painful. She gives his hand a tug to make him aware, but he doesn’t let go.

“O’Malley,” says the plummy foreign voice.

“Bingham.”

“I thought you hated Galway.” The Englishman stops three steps from the bottom so as to loom above her father.

“My opinion of the place hasn’t changed since last we met,” Eóin says.

“And yet here you are.”

“A necessity I do not enjoy.”

Bingham sighs. Looks over her father’s head. Peers at Donal dispassionately. Then his eyes shift to her and narrow, taking in the hand that holds hers. “Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

Those eyes return to Donal’s cautious face. Then back to hers. “Pups from different litters, I take it.”

Silence, filled with menace, is her father’s only answer for several long seconds. It stretches out, making even the guards uncomfortable. They shift awkwardly until he finally speaks.

“Your son?” Eóin asks.

The Englishman nods. “Richard.”

“Ah, you’re one of those men.”

“What kind would that be?”

“The kind that names a son after himself.”

“My family legacy is important to me, O’Malley. I thought you’d feel the same about yours.”

“I’ll know I’ve actually managed a legacy when my children name a son after me.”

The Englishman laughs. “Oh, I intend to see my legacy long before then. Come, Richard, we have real business to attend.”