Page 2 of Irish Reign

“What paper?” I ask. But following her gaze, I realize I’m still holding the document I found on the floor of the bedroom I share with Braiden, just before the smoke detector went off. Someone slipped it under the door while we slept.

It looks official. It’s printed on heavy bond. There are illustrations around the border—a church at the bottom, scrollwork filled with shamrocks and harps at the top. The text is printed with heavy black letters that look like a monk wrote them in the Middle Ages. Three signatures run across the bottom.

A single word is stamped across the document in crimson letters: Annulled. And someone has scribbled through Birte’s name, using blood-red crayon.

“It’s a legal document,” I tell Aiofe. “From the church in Ireland. It says your Uncle Braiden never married Aunt Birte.”

“But he did,” she says. “I was there.”

Shewasthere. She was present at the church when her father tried to kill Braiden. When her father killed her brother by accident. When her father turned his knife on himself.

I don’t know how to explain that Braiden’s marriage to Birte was never consummated. I have no idea what Aiofe knows about sex. She turned eleven earlier this month, but most of the time she acts like a child half her age.

I suspect that if Grace Poole hasn’t taught her about her body, no one has. Grace Poole, who is somewhere on the third floor of the house.

Braiden, get out of there!

Even as I look back at the fire, I put together a story to explain what has happened. I don’t know that it’s true. I only hope I’ll get to prove it, once Braiden comes out the front door, carrying Birte, guiding Grace.

Here’s the tale that makes sense: Braiden received the signed, sealed paper sometime in the past week. I don’t knowwhen the annulment arrived. I didn’t even know he’d applied for one. I was away from Thornfield, nursing wounds from the cruel things he and I said to each other in a heated fight.

But Birte found the document. And when she did, something snapped inside her fragile mind. This time, she wasn’t satisfied with lighting just a few candles. This time, she came to my car, siphoned gas, and set fire to the entire house.

“Samantha?” Aiofe asks. “Didn’t Uncle Braiden marry Aunt Birte?”

“It’s complicated.”

“But Father Regis says?—”

Fairfax interrupts. “We can ask Father about it later.”

I shoot him a look of gratitude. But Aiofe isn’t through with her impossible questions. I almost regret that tonight is the night she finally chose to speak. “You didn’t answer my question. Where is Uncle Braiden?”

I swallow hard. “He’s inside the house. He’s getting Aunt Birte and Grace.”

“And Uncle Madden? Uncle Madden’s hurt. Is he still in there? Is someone helping him?”

Fairfax and I share another glance over Aiofe’s head. Madden was trying to overthrow his brother, trying to steal the Philadelphia mob from Braiden.

Aiofe saw Madden shoot himself in the face, a suicide attempt gone awry. She didn’t see Braiden torture his traitorous brother. She doesn’t know Braiden executed Madden for what he did. She doesn’t know Madden’s body lies somewhere in the furnace of the second floor.

Once again Fairfax saves the day. “I hear sirens. Don’t you?”

Before I can strain to hear them over the crackling flames, Aiofe shouts, “Aunt Birte! There! On the roof!”

I follow Aiofe’s pointing finger.

And she’s right. Somehow, Birte has made her way onto the parapet that runs at the foot of the gabled roof.

She’s standing on top of the stone barrier, feet steady and firm. Her white gown billows in the air currents from the fire. Even at this distance, I can see the heavy gold cross she keeps around her neck. Birte’s bright red curls frame her face. Her eyes look black from here, but I know they’re the color of summer grass.

“Aunt Birte!” Aiofe hollers from the driveway. “Aunt Birte!”

I can’t believe Birte hears her, not at this distance, not over the flames. But the woman on the roof tilts her head at an angle. A ravishing smile floods her face, as if she’s listening to a chorus of angels. She clutches her cross with both hands. She nods once.

And she steps off the parapet.

We can’t hear her hit the ground, not with all the other noise. But Aiofe screams, her throat tearing like cheap cotton. Fairfax and I grab her at the same time, keeping her from running across the shattered glass to the broken, bleeding body.

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