Page 62 of Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy 2)
“Arthur Guinness was a smart man.”
Mount nods to a sign painted on what looks like a partial replica of a fermentation tank. It reads:
Not everything in black and white makes sense.
The fact that Mount noticed the sign makes me think of the overwhelming presence of black, white, and gold in the two suites I’ve seen in his compound. And the dining room. And the hallways.
“Did you get your decorating tips from Guinness?” When I turn to face him, he’s on the step below me, putting us at eye level.
Mount’s laugh booms out, echoing over
the chatter, which I swear goes quiet for a moment. “No. No, I did not.”
“Then what’s that all about?”
The humor in his expression fades, and I don’t think he’ll reply, but he does.
“It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That there is such a thing as absolutes. Good and evil. Right and wrong.”
That explains the black and white. “But what’s with the gold?”
“The golden rule. He who has the most gold makes the rules . . . and gets to determine where those lines between right and wrong are drawn.”
I feel like Mount just gave me a peek inside his head, and I’m not sure what to do with that information. In this situation, undoubtedly, Mount has the most gold, therefore he makes the rules. But right and wrong, good and evil . . . those concepts don’t seem like they’d trouble him much. Or, if anything, I’d assume he’d say he lives in the shades of gray.
Mount lifts his chin and glances up. “You’re missing the good stuff.”
I look where he indicated. It’s a glass sign that reads:
This is the storehouse where, for almost a century the magic process of fermentation took place. Construction began in July 1902. Four years later, fermentation began and continued until 1988.
My curiosity about the black, white, and gold is pushed aside for a moment as the history of where I’m standing washes over me. It might not have a damn thing to do with whiskey, which is my passion, but my roots and their ties to the city feel stronger than ever.
Mount and I wander up each floor, reading the placards and listening to the holograms describe the history of Guinness. What impresses Mount the most is that Arthur Guinness had the foresight and confidence to sign a nine-thousand-year lease for the storehouse property.
“That took balls. Have to respect the man for that, if nothing else.”
“It was crazy! They must have thought he was insane,” I say.
Mount shakes his head. “Brilliant, more likely.”
After learning about how to properly build a pint and tasting a sample, we finally make it to the Gravity Bar, and I’m able to see the famous 360-degree view of Dublin beyond the glass. It’s surreal.
Mount positions himself behind me. He places his hands on either side of mine, resting on the tall table with the remains of our pints between us, protecting me from the jostling of the massive number of people crammed into the space.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I turn my head to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what you would’ve picked to do today, but it meant a lot to me.”
He doesn’t answer but his dark gaze pierces mine, making me wish I had another peek into this man’s head. He’s an enigma.
Mount’s palm slides against the small of my back once more before he replies. “Finish your pint. We’re not done with Dublin yet.”
Mount
I want her to kiss me. Right there in the bar, I want her to turn around and fucking kiss me of her own free will. When she doesn’t, I force down my disappointment and lead her down the stairs and out of the building, telling myself that at least she’ll never think of Guinness without remembering this trip. And me.
