Page 48 of The Pirate Queen

The bath is long and hot and, as promised, Howth sends a serving girl with clean trews and a pressed linen shirt. Grace feels like a new woman when she leaves the chamber an hour later and walks with her men to the dining room.

If Christopher still has a father, Grace is destined never to meet him. For it is only Lord Howth and his youngest heir who sit at the table. Additional places have been set, though the seat at Howth’s right is reserved.

“For you,” Howth tells Grace.

Christopher is eighteen, though he doesn’t look it. No doubt he’s one of those men who will take time to grow into himself. Nonetheless, he practically vibrates with energy. Once her seat has been pulled out from the table, he says, “Grandfather declared that an extra setting be placed at the table in perpetuity for any guest that should arrive unexpectedly. We think of it as your spot. In that sense you’ve dined with us every night these last ten years.”

Of all the men she’s known, and of all the promises that have been made throughout her life, there is little reason why this one should push the tears into her eyes. And yet here she is, blinking back her gratitude.

Still, Grace quirks an eyebrow. “In perpetuity? I see you’ve gotten him a tutor, Howth. His vocabulary has improved dramatically since the last time I saw him.”

“An unfortunate necessity given the time he spent among your pira—uh—that is—privateers. The boy came home cursing like a Portuguese sailor.”

“I take offense to that. My crew speaks Irish, not Portuguese. I had the great misfortune of meeting a caravel full of those sea dogs when I was young, and I do not recommend the experience. Whatever Christopher learned in my company was civilized by comparison.”

“Is that why, to this day, he cannot speak the name Galway without preceding it by the colorful expletive ‘fecking’?”

Her expression is the picture of innocence when she says, “Lord Howth, that is the only way to describe that particular city.”

Hours later, after dinner and wine and whiskey and port, when Lord Howth and Christopher have walked them to the door and bid their farewells, Grace hesitates on the threshold.

I will never see them again, she thinks.

Has she truly reached the age when she’s begun to say her farewells? The thought makes her shudder.

Her men are anxious. They have humored her this afternoon. She knows that they could be well on their way home by now—at least past Wicklow Head—had they set sail immediately. But she’d wanted a proper bath. And she’d wanted to know that promises had been kept. Grace is not disappointed.

“Where to now, Captain?” Ultan asks once they’ve passed through the castle gates.

“Home,” she tells him. “To gather the fleet. Then we head north to raise an army.”

Maiden, 1540

“Donal of the Pipes”

Grace is ten years old

They are lost. And Grace has never been happier. Donal, however, has not caught on to this bit of mischief and plods along behind her, happily fiddling with his pipes. They have been wandering the woods for an hour and the sun is finally at its zenith, enabling her to lose all sense of direction. She resists the urge to reach into the pocket of her apron and take hold of her compass. Instead, Grace moves deeper into a copse of tall, fat-trunked, bare-branched ash trees. It is the last tree in the forest to sprout leaves, and the small green nubs are only now pushing through.

She meanders.

A flock of whimbrels fly overhead, their staccato calls of pip-pip-pip-pip-pip echoing around them. She sees a flash of pale feathers and long black beaks and then the birds are gone.

“You know Da is going to send me away, right?”

Grace stops. Turns. “What?”

“To fosterage. He’ll be shipping me off to some other clan. So I can be civilized.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He has to, Gráinne. All the chieftains send their heirs away. I just don’t understand why he hasn’t done it yet. I’m fourteen. Well past time.”

“Then I’ll be going with you,” she declares.

Donal walks past her, laughing. It sounds like the human version of his pipes. Bright and uplifting, with a melodic rhythm as it tapers out. It always tapers out, as though he has only enough laughter for her. Five steps and it’s gone, replaced by a sigh. His shoulders drop.

She runs after him to catch up. “How long will you be gone?”