Standing tall against the horizon was O’Malley Castle, a typical
tower house of dark gray stone. Rising several stories high, it com-
manded a view of the sea from all its windows. It had a wide moat,
and beyond that moat was-of all things-a rose garden, planted
by the late Lady O’Malley. After her death, now four years past,
the new Lady O’Malley kept the garden up. Now in full bloom, it
was a riot of yellows, pinks, reds, and whites, a perfect background
for the wedding of the youngest daughter.

Inside the tower house, in the main hall, the five older daughters
of the O’Malley family sat happily gossiping with their pretty step-mother while they sewed and embroidered the bride’s trousseau. It
had been a long time since they had all been together. Now, each
had her own home, and they all met only on special occasions.

They were as similar now as they had been as children. Medium-
tall, they all ran to partridge plump. It was the kind of comfortable
figure that kept a man warm on a cold night. Each was fair-skinned with soft peach-colored cheeks, serious gray eyes, and long, straight,
light-brown hair. None was beautiful, but none was ugly, either.

The eldest, Moire, was twenty-five, and had been married for
twelve years. She was mother to nine living children, seven sons.
Moire stood high in her father’s favor. Peigi, at twenty-three, had
been married ten years and was mother to nine sons. Peigi stood
even higher in her father’s favor. Bride, twenty-one, had been mar-
ried eight years, and had only four children, two of whom were
boys. Dubhdara tolerated Bride, and constantly exhorted her to
greater productivity. “You’re more like your mother than the others,”
he would say ominously.