Chapter 9: The Second Chair

I came back to Stroud House on Thursday night for one reason.

The uncle's petition would be read at the family table at eight, and I wanted to hear it with my own ears.

Noreen met me at the door and said nothing, which was kind of her.

The dining room had the same black table and the same candles.

Fourteen chairs again, and the chair at Donovan's right hand was empty.

I did not wait to be asked.

I crossed the room in my own jeans and my own boots, pulled out the second chair, and sat in it.

The twelve men stopped talking.

Donovan, at the head of the table, did not so much as blink.

He only moved his hand a little on the wood.

"The wife's chair is not a gift," the uncle said, leaning on his cane.

"It's earned by the family. This girl has not been in this house a week."

"Seven years," I said.

"On paper."

"Then let's talk about paper." I turned to Donovan. "Before we start, I have terms."

"Name them," he said.

"Number one. You never lie to me again. Not to protect me, not to spare me, not for the good of the family."

"Done."

"Two. Ferrand Pier is mine. Nobody in this family touches it, buys it, or drives a piling into it without my name on a page."

"Done."

"Three. I pick my own guard."

"Who?"

"Noreen."

At the door, Noreen's head came up.

"Noreen is yours," Donovan said. "She was always going to be."

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