“Conas tá mé chaill tú,” Aoife whispered into her brother’s neck, hugging him as close and as tightly as he was hugging her. “Déithe agus arrachtaigh, conas tá mé chaill tú.”
“I missed you, too,” he murmured into her hair. His arms loosened after a moment and he stepped back, as if to study her. She held him fast, keeping him close enough to murmur a question.
“Is he alive?”
Phelan blinked at her, as if he didn’t understand the question. “Who?”
Gods and monsters. Who else would I be asking about? Aoife exhaled and shivered. Don’t be like that. Gods know that you’ve been away from them for so long that there’s any number of people you could be asking about. “Seamus, Phelan. Is he still alive?”
Her brother’s expression soured for a moment. “You could have told me that he’d survived to hang out in Charlemagne’s court, you know. You could have told me about his son.”
She winced. He knows about that, then. Well, I suppose that’s better than worse, right? “I’m sorry. I swore I wouldn’t.”
Phelan sighed. “I was afraid you’d say something like that, though I guess I expected it. Still, it would have been nice to know.”
Aoife shook her head slowly. “How did you find out, Phelan?”
“Leinth,” Phelan said quietly. “And I…I’ve met Cameron. His grandson half a dozen times over or something.” He looked beyond her, gaze distant. Aoife’s hands tightened on his arms.
“Is Seamus still alive?” she asked again, her heart hammering against her breastbone so hard that she almost swore it was trying to batter its way free of her chest entirely.
Her brother grimaced, glancing down at her. She blew out a breath through her teeth.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because some things should come from the man himself,” another voice said. It was more gravely and rasping than she remembered, but familiar nonetheless.
Aoife’s hands fell away from Phelan’s arms and she twisted toward the man who’d spoken, her eyes widening.
Seamus smiled faintly. “Dia duit, Aoife. Welcome to our little home by the water.”
