“Saint Patrick’s Day. Perfect. This time next year? Heck, you might have a child for Christmas.”

“I might.”

“Hey—twins!” he said. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

He drained his glass. She stared up into his face as if searching. Searching for what, he had no idea. What was left to search for? Decisions, clearly, had been made.

“Do you—”

“What?”

“Want to, I don’t know what to say…”

“So, don’t.”

“Ask anything? Know anything?”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m going to get another drink. You?”

He walked into the study and found the decanter and noticed how much less was in it than when he’d arrived earlier in the afternoon.

“Danny.”

“Don’t.” He turned to her with a smile.

“Don’t what?”

“Say my name.”

“Why can’t I—?”

“Like it means anything,” he said. “Change the tone. All right? Just do that. When you say it.”

She twisted her wrist in one hand and then dropped both hands to her sides. “I…”

“What?” He took a strong pull from his glass.

“I can’t abide a man feels sorry for himself.”

He shrugged. “Heavens. How Irish of you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Just getting started.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed.

“I am.”

“Let me ask you something—you know the old man is looking into things back in the Old Sod. I told you that.”

She nodded, her eyes on the carpet.

“Is that why you’re rushing the wedding?”

She raised her head, met his eyes, said nothing.

“You really think it’ll save you if the family finds out you’re already married?”

“I think…” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it. “I think if I’m wed to Connor, your father will never disown me. He’ll do what he does best—whatever is necessary.”

“You’re that afraid of being disowned.”

“I’m that afraid of being alone,” she said. “Of going hungry again. Of being…” She shook her head.

“What?”

Her eyes found the rug again. “Helpless.”

“My, my, Nora, quite the survivor, eh?” He chuckled. “You make me want to puke.”

She said, “I what?”

“All over the carpet,” he said.

Her petticoat swished as she crossed the study and poured herself an Irish whiskey. She threw back half of it and turned to him. “Who the fuck are you, then, boy?”

“Pretty mouth,” he said. “Gorgeous.”

“I make you want to vomit, Danny?”

“At the moment.”

“And why’s that, then?”

He crossed to her. He thought of lifting her up by her smooth white throat. He thought of eating her heart so it could never look back through her eyes at him.

“You don’t love him,” he said.

“I do.”

“Not the way you loved me.”

“Who says I did?”

“You did.”

“You say.”

“You say.” He took her shoulders in his hands.

“Off me now.”

“You say.”

“Off me now. Unhand me.”

He dropped his forehead to the flesh just below her throat. He felt more alone than when the bomb landed on the floor of Salutation Street Precinct, more alone and more sick of his very self than he’d ever expected to feel.