Page 81 of The Pirate Queen

“Will you keep her name?” Finn asks.

“No, I’ll change it.”

“To what?”

“I don’t yet know. But she’s an Irish ship now and she deserves an Irish name.”

An hour later, Grace signals to the watchman on her father’s dock. Lanterns spring to life, one after another, up the hill toward the tower house. Yellow puddles of light illuminate the sturdy stone dock as the crew eases The Mary Fortune into her berth. As soon as it glides to a stop, Grace leaps onto the dock, but the rock is slick and one foot slides out from under her. If not for the watchman and his quick reflexes, she would go flying. But his iron grip clamps onto her arm.

“If you’re here to see The O’Malley, you’re early. He isn’t receiving visitors until tomorrow,” he says.

Grace steadies herself and retreats a step so that she can make out his face in the dark. “I did not realize I needed an appointment to see my own father.”

A bit of stunned silence and then, “Gráinne?”

She recognizes that voice. It has grown more gravelly, but there’s no mistaking her father’s first mate. “Sivney?”

“Oh, your da will be pleased to see you. And your mam as well. The children have been after me all week, wondering when you would send for them.”

She grins. She cannot help it. Grace had stuffed away the part of her that ached for Young Eóin and Margaret and Merrick since she sent them away.

“That eager to get away, are they?”

“On the contrary.” Sivney laughs. “They’re begging to stay longer.”

“Well.” She clears her throat. “I fear that wish will be granted.”

“What ha—”

Sivney is interrupted when a great wall of body shoves him aside. Then Grace is lifted off her feet and spun around. But she cannot make sense of his face in the dark. Not with all that beard. Not until she sees the gap between his teeth.

“Gutty!”

He sets her down, then sets a hand atop her head as though he’s petting a cat. “Tá.”

“Look at you! You’re a giant! When did that happen?”

He ducks his head. “Ah, listen,” he says, looking over her shoulder at the growing mass of villagers gathering on deck The Mary Fortune. “I know you’ve just arrived but—”

“Mam!”

“Mam!”

“Mam!”

Her name in triplicate echoes across the dock, along with the slap of bare feet on wet stone.

“Don’t run!” she orders her children. “It’s slick and you’ll—”

“Shite!” Gutty lunges toward Margaret as she goes careening over the edge of the dock.

He plucks Margaret from the air before she can drop the ten feet to the water, grumbling something about “these children” and “death of me” and “fecking wild banshees.” But she hears laughter in his voice.

First Eóin plows into Grace. Then Merrick. And it’s a henhouse of chatter, each excited interruption drowning out the last.

“What took you so long?” Young Eóin, in that new deep voice she’s not adjusted to.

“I love it here!” Margaret, lilting and brimming with laughter, as usual.