I put off talking to my wife as the day passed. During lunch, I opened my mouth to speak, but Niamh’s brother Liam texted her right in that moment. Now thoroughly distracted, she wouldn’t hear a word I said right that moment. That was what I told myself, even though I knew it was a flimsy excuse.
I girded my loins to bring up the dreaded topic that afternoon. After I’d had a cup of tea fortified with a splash of brandy, I inquired with Niamh’s maid, Celia. Celia was a pretty thing, but she wasn’t the brightest, either. She tended to swallow her tongue any time I asked her for a simple request. I would’ve asked any other servant, but she was the only one I could find.
“Your Highness,” she squeaked, curtseying. Her hands fluttered like a neurotic butterfly.
“Do you know where my wife is?”
