Page 78 of The Pirate Queen

All sight of land quickly falls away. Grace must squint to see the high cliffs and their grassy bonnet. They have packed nothing. She is still barefoot. None of them are wearing appropriate clothing for a jaunt into open water. And this is the wrong boat. Too small, too easily tossed around. Uneasiness settles into Grace’s body, preventing her from finding a comfortable spot in the bow.

They continue west for another hour, until the sun sits at its zenith, surrounded by dazzling blue. As is her habit, Grace leans over the prow and dips her fingers into the water. It is colder than it should be on such a pleasant day. There is nothing to fear, no reason why her limbs should feel so heavy—the way they do after a long hike—but she wants to turn around, to go home.

Finally, Eóin leaves the rudder and scrambles over the benches so that he sits between them. He is silent for a long time, so silent Grace becomes anxious.

“I am not angry with you, Donal. Your mother’s choices are her own.”

The shadows that have lined her brother’s face since this morning seem to fade. He nods at their father, grateful. Then one corner of his mouth lifts in a near smile. “You need not have brought us all the way out here to say so. Mam’s hearing isn’t that good, you know?”

The joke earns a rare laugh from their father. “That’s not why I brought you.”

“Why, then?”

Grace moves to tuck her back into the bow so that she can face them, but has a sense of being watched, like something is out there, just out of sight, on the horizon. So she sits sideways instead. She scans the water for a moment, sensing some terrible menace, searching for the pop of white sails belonging to foreign privateers. They’ll have no chance of outpacing a galley in this small vessel.

“Tell me,” Eóin says, “what kind of weather we will have today.”

Donal has spent as much of his life outdoors as Grace. He, too, has explored every forest and pasture, every cliff, stream, and glade on Clare Island. So when he looks to the sky, then in each direction, he says with utter confidence, “Clear and warm.”

“Explain why.”

“The air is still, nary a gust of wind. No storm clouds in any direction. And even if there were, it would take hours to reach us. ’Tis a perfect day for hiking. For fishing.”

As if voicing their agreement, a flock of small birds squawk by them merrily, headed farther west out to sea. They call to one another as they graze the surface of the water in search of fish, their charcoal bodies nearly blending into the darker water. They look to be dancing, the way they spin and swirl on top of each cresting wave.

“He’s wrong,” Grace says, turning away from the birds, astonished by her own certainty.

Eóin scowls. “Why do you say that?”

“Those are petrels.”

“So?” Donal asks. “They live their entire lives at sea. And they’re going away from land.”

“They never come in during a storm. They only come in to breed,” she argues.

“That doesn’t make your case, bird. Why do you think Donal is wrong?”

“I cannot explain it…I…” She gives her father a desperate look. “I can only feel it. It feels wrong to be out here in this boat right now. Something is coming for us.”

Eóin humors her by searching the horizon. “No one is out there.”

The smile that creeps across his face feels mocking to her.

“Not someone. Something. There is a storm coming, Da. And we need to be at home when it hits. Don’t tell me I’m being silly. The water is too cold and too dark. The air feels heavy and smells like—”

Grace stops herself, realizing how ridiculous she sounds.

But her father leans forward. “Smells like what, bird?”

“Never mind.”

Donal inhales deeply. “It only smells like salt and water.”

“Tell me,” Eóin orders.

Grace turns her back to them. Closes her eyes. Breathes through her nose. The scent is familiar to her. Oddly comforting, even. But it does not belong here. It makes no sense.

“Gráinne.” Her father’s voice is deeper now. Demanding.