Ivy didn't get rid of all her quirks when she became a Fearghus puppet. If she had, she would have gone off her nuts long before this; yes, her facade tended to crumble when she was around that man for too long, and it didn't help her to do things that reminded her of home, but how else was she supposed to survive? If she rejected herself entirely, she would go mad and they would win. That man would win. But if she kept parts of herself, she was at risk of ruining the Free Blood plans by slipping up. It was a constant balancing act...an exhausting balancing act that left her agitated and waspish.

That's why she still curled up dangerously close to the fire. It was a small comfort in a time when everything was curses and ill winds. Maeve, what I wouldn't give for something to be happy about! she thought as she wrapped her silk-clad arms around her knees and watched the flames dance. Another drink with Holly, the chance to talk to Harry and Derry and Da and Granda...the chance to tell them what's happened to me, not lies...just truths, truths like they've never heard come from a mouth before...they could rescue me...granda could. He would. He would kill him even if it meant the failure of the Revolution.

She glanced at the elegant clock ticking on the wall. Quarter past nine. That man was still out, probably in some Fearghus meeting. They were being kept very busy by the Revolution. Ivy would know. She was the one that kept weaseling little openings for them to cause disaster within the Fearghus ranks. Too bad there were so many Fearghus and so few Revolutionaries, otherwise her efforts might have gotten them somewhere. Instead more people were hurt. Why are you so bloody good at hurting people, Ive?

Just then she heard the front door open. She jumped, and quickly stood and tried to brush the wrinkles out of her lovely, expensive robe (a Christmas gift from that man; in bloody Seirbhe green, of course) and brush her hair back into a semi-smooth knot. In a manner of seconds her demeanor changed entirely. Her expression was (mostly) placid as she walked into the front hall, her movements small and soft. She lay a hand on the banister and offered that man a meager, tired smile.

"You're late again."

You bloody half-English wife-beating bastard.

Wait--stop! Don't be Ivy! Be a good Fearghus wifey!

Her eyes dropped and she added "I'm sorry. It's just that I've been waiting so long. Oh, let me get your cloak." She helped him out of his cloak and hung it up, then led him into the sitting room where the fire was blazing.

"Was it another meeting?" asked Ivy, as she sat across from him with her legs crossed and hands folded, and tried to look sympathetic, even though all she really felt like doing was kicking him in the jaw and wringing his neck. She couldn't stand to look at that man. Every time she did she would think of things, memories that made her feel ill, and she would have to drop her gaze. It was a good thing he found the whole arse-kissing, spineless pureblood wife thing attractive, or else their marriage would have been destroyed long before this. With that thought in mind, she leaned forward and gently brushed an invisible piece of lint from his knee. She would really need to act if she were to avoid any arguments, or worse. Only the most arse-kissingest wife would pass inspection for Edward Garrow.

Wartime politics. Edward might have had better luck with them if he'd been in his own country. He was a quick study when it came to things like people, their levers, and their beliefs...but there was an entirely different set of loyalties here that he was only just now beginning to grasp. Oh, the themes were certainly all the same. A small group of rich pureblood families at the head of things--that Edward had certainly understood quickly. Several lesser purebloods to do the bidding of the big families--yes, he comprehended that too. Halfbloods and Muggleborns filling in the lower strata--yes, it all made sense. There were only three things throwing him off after a year of study.

The Grahams, the Ballantines, and the Everards.

Well, mostly the Grahams. Cormac had explained about the other two families. The Ballantines, after all, were nothing but poor island people, too stupid to see beyond their nets, and the Everards. Cormac had lost a sister to that criminal family (she'd come back, of course, when she realized the truth), and he'd explained to Edward that they looked for any chance to go against the law. But the Grahams...Cormac had expressed the opinion that it was because the family was not in fact Irish, but Scottish. Edward agreed that the Scottish were of little consequence.

The meeting had actually been rather short, but Edward had taken the opportunity again to try and explain Ivy's "strange" behavior to Cormac; "strange" here meaning that she had a tendency to roam the house at night, talked back, and took longer than a minute to obey his orders. The old Irishman had only given Edward a surprised look. "Control her, Edward. Don't you English know how to control a woman?" Well, there was hardly anything Edward could say to that. He had no choice but to go home and...control Ivy.

She was there, wearing one of the robes he had bought for her and smiling wearily at him. She had waited up for him. Where that once would have pleased him, he was become suspicious enough to question her motives for it now. Edward, after all, was a sleazy political performer himself, and Ivy was not just from some minor family looking for connection. He quirked an eyebrow at her words, but said nothing for the time being. He allowed her to take his cloak and followed her into the sitting room. He smiled at the warmth of the fire.

"Was it another meeting?"

"Yes," Edward said, leaning back into his armchair and closing his eyes. "That's the problem with rebellion. Too much damn paperwork." He felt her touch his knee and opened his eyes, looking over at her. Slowly, he leaned forward, reaching out to cradle the back of her head, being gentle with the bun he felt there. He gave her a slight smile and laid a soft, almost predatory kiss on her full Irish lips. He lingered there a moment before standing and stretching. The warmth of the fire had reminded him how hungry he was; he hadn't eaten since lunchtime, being too distracted by his studies.

"Dinner," he said. He turned and started walking towards their dining hall. "I hope you haven't already eaten; if you did I will forgive you. As long as you sit with me while I eat, of course," he added, stopping and turning around to look at her.

"Yes. That's the problem with rebellion. Too much damn paperwork."

Ha! Paperwork! Like that was what made the revolution awful! Not, say, the spilled blood, divided blood of a nation, or vast hopeless personal sacrifice, or the death of brothers and sisters and friends. No. Paperwork. That was the real problem with rebellion! Ivy managed to hide her sense of disgust at this comment by staring at his knees and nodding in an understanding sort of way. Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Naturally, me darling man. As she touched the fabric that covered his knee she felt a hand at the back of her neck, and resisted a shudder as he leaned towards her.

This was always the hardest part. Touching that man, that slimy maggoty pile of shite man, was the worst test of all. He was just so intrusive. He didn't care what he did, how it made her feel, it was all about that man and his pleasure and his whim. It didn't matter what Ivy wanted; but what sort of craic was that? Ivy didn't exist anymore. Mrs. Garrow existed. Humble, gentle, obedient, tidy, quiet Mrs. Garrow. She tried to be that when he kissed her. But really, all she wanted to do was bite his lips off his face. He's not even a good kisser! He doesn't even taste good! Bloody Maeve, would it be too much to ask for that, at least?

She smiled at him when he pulled away. Sometimes she surprised herself at how well she could act...it was an ability that never would have blossomed if it hadn't been necessary for her to put aside her natural personality for higher purposes. The expression of peacefulness didn't last long, however.

"Dinner."

Shite. Her smile disappeared and she felt some of the blood go out of her face.

"I hope you haven't already eaten; if you did I will forgive you. As long as you sit with me while I eat, of course."

"Oh no!" she said, putting a hand over her mouth and standing up. The truth was that she'd snuck out and eaten with Holly. That titdbit, however, was something that he absolutely could not find out. Holly was a known revolutionary, a fiery foreign one at that, and hardly 'converted' like Ivy supposedly was. Ivy was supposed to be utterly clean after the Fearghus put her through their program. But she knew better than that, and that man had an inkling that all was not as it seemed in his wife. That's why it was so important not to make any mistakes. He was too dangerous.

"I'm so sorry Edward, but there's nothing prepared," she said. She looked genuinely remorseful, and she had good reason to be...imagine the punishment she would get for not feeding him! "I haven't been feeling well, and since you've been coming home so late I told Cook not to worry herself making a hot meal. I'll get her now. With a touch of magic and my help we'll have something for you in a manner of minutes."

She started walking towards the kitchen, but paused to kiss him on the cheek and give him an apologetic smile. "I really am sorry, me dear. It won't take long, and I'll stay up all night with you to make it up to you. Whatever you like. What would you like to eat? A bit of shepherd's pie, maybe roast lamb? I'll throw a few chips on and a salad too. We have half a soda bread left over from Sunday. A slice of that with some jam might tempt even my stomach!" She paused in her characteristically Irish flow of words, frowned slightly at him, and put her hand on his cheek, managing not to flinch as she looked into his bright eyes. "You're not mad, are you?"

"Oh no!"

No?

"I'm so sorry Edward, but there's nothing prepared."

Edward didn't turn around to look at his wife. He was a firm believer in the mantra "image is everything," even within his own home; something he'd gotten from his father, who always made sure young Edward was tucked safely in bed before starting an argument with his wife, though when Edward got older he of course figured out what they were doing, and that Saoirse's bruises didn't come from falling pans (which he couldn't believe he hadn't figured out sooner, since she didn't do a whole lot of cooking).

As such, he thought it best to keep his true reaction from Ivy until he decided how he wanted to react, a process that was taking much longer than usual because of the lateness of the hour and his long history of frustrations with Ivy. He had been in a good mood before this, but the first sign of trouble with his devastatingly beautiful Irish wife and every grievance he had with her in his marriage would come rushing to the front of his memory. His first instinct was to hit her. He had done it before and she knew exactly what it meant when he did...but he no longer felt that it had the same effect on her. Ivy was a strong-willed woman, whatever Cormac said...Edward could see it in her eyes. No. Hitting her did nothing but make her furious.

He tuned out her excuses. Listening to them would make it difficult to maintain his composure, since Edward despised excuses. He didn't move, in fact, until she walked past him and stopped to kiss his cheek. It was the most she ever did in the area of touching him of her own volition. What Edward had originally called the grace of a modest pureblood woman, he now saw as the tantalizing machinations of a manipulative woman sent to drive him mad. He continued to tune out her words as he looked down at her, eyes glittering as he struggled again to force his anger down.

"You're not mad, are you?"

A pause. "Of course not, my dear," he said, smiling warmly at her. "I understand it must be hard for you when I'm away, alone in this big house with no one but the servants. We ought to get you a companion? Or perhaps..." He took her by the shoulders and pulled her into a tight, perhaps too tight, embrace. "Maybe, darling, it's time for a child?" He held her there in silence for a moment before kissing the top of her head and releasing her.

"That soda bread does sound refreshing, pet. Come and have some with me?" he asked her with the most innocent of evil smiles.

At least he hadn't hit her.

"Of course not, my dear. I understand it must be hard for you when I'm away, alone in this big house with no one but the servants. We ought to get you a companion? Or perhaps..."

Ivy flinched slightly when he wrapped his arms around her. Oh joy; she was in exactly the place she least wanted to be. She would rather be wrapped in the arms of a grizzly bear, a dementor, a violently ill two year old with dragon pox and a propensity for shrill screaming, than stay there in that man's arms. It was all a lie! At least she could be honest about the situation if it were a bear or dementor or shrill and ill two year old. She wouldn't have to spend all her time and energy trying to be this image of subservience. It simply wasn't in her nature. Her father, rest his soul, had learned quickly that the only way she learned was from the pain of her mistakes, and not a belt. That man didn't understand her. Even Jayden could understand her more than he did, and within two days of knowing her.

"Maybe, darling, it's time for a child?"

Hell no. She was not breeding any of his spawn, he and his pure half-English blood could go elsewhere for that. She was certain his girlfriends could provide him with as many bastard children as he'd like. As for Ivy, she would continue to drink vile-tasting infertility potions behind his back and laugh off any comments about her Graham blood not working.

"Oh, I do miss children," she admitted, sighing into his chest. The awful thing was that she did. Hers was a large Irish family, and this was a large empty house. There was such a temptation to slip up--not that she wanted to hop into bed with that man, she just didn't have a choice--if only so she wouldn't have to be alone in her misery anymore. But it was a selfish desire and one that she couldn't give in to. It would be one more weakness for him to abuse. One more person for him to abuse. She would never let him hurt a child of hers, regardless of whether or not he was the father.

"That soda bread does sound refreshing, pet. Come and have some with me?"

"Of course, darlin'. I'll have it in a moment."

She slipped out of his arms, taking a deep breath as she did as air filled her slightly crushed lungs, and walked smoothly through the dining room to the kitchen, where house elves were busy working. Although people like Hermione Weasley had hugely improved the status of the creatures, such advancements didn't apply in the Garrow household. They still had no clothes, only spare pillow cases and whatever else they could find. It hadn't taken her long to sway their loyalties over to her. They frequently made comparisons to Saoirse, and Saoirse they described as nothing short of a martyr, so there was small consolation there. She managed to flash them a brief smile before it was replaced with a deep frown.

"Dinner," she said shortly. "Where's cook?"

A chorus of voices told her that cook wasn't there and they would be happy to help Miss Ivy. She nodded, and the house elves scurried around the kitchen helping her create some semblance of a meal out of thin air. Now that she saw the food she was starving, and she shoved two sandwiches down her throat before she smoothed down her silk robe yet again and walked out with a silver tray covered with food.

"There ye are. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

He sat at the head of the table and she sat to the left of him, filling his plate well for him but putting only a slice of the soda bread on hers. She brushed her hands off and lay one on his. "How was the meeting?"