He left without a word to Sully. Mother hovered a minute, then laid her hand on Sully’s cheek, just once, before following.
The door shut. The house was silent again, but the air was thinner, like a pressure had been lifted.
Sully let out a long, slow breath. “That could’ve gone worse.”
I laughed, short and sharp. “You’re not from here if you think that’s ‘not bad.’ Da will have the whole parish here by sunset.”
He grinned, relief in it. “I missed this.”
I wiped at my eyes. “Me too.”
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine. “I meant what I said.”
I nodded. “Me too. Now help me with the washing, or you’ll have Mother on us both.”
He stood, rolled his sleeves, and followed me out to the yard. We did the chores in silence, side by side, the way we used to, and the world felt, for a moment, almost possible again.
***
The table was set for four, though my mother kept glancing at the door as if expecting another guest. She’d spread the cloth, scrubbed and patched a dozen times, and set out the chipped bowls, the battered spoons. The only luxury was the last of theblack bread and a crock of honey, which she placed in the center like an offering.
Angus sat at the head, shoulders squared, every line of his body daring Sully to sit across from him. I settled at Sully’s side, my knee brushing his under the table, a claim I wasn’t sure I had the right to make but did anyway. Da didn’t miss it; the muscle in his cheek ticked like a deathwatch beetle.
We ate in silence, the only sound the scrape of spoons on wood and the wind rattling the shutters. Every few seconds, Angus would clear his throat, a reminder that the peace was an illusion.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did you get those clothes?” The words hung in the air like a bad smell.
Sully looked down at his jeans, the fraying at the cuff, the faded t-shirt clinging to his ribs. “They’re from the time I returned from,” he said.
“They’re not Irish-made. Not even English. And that mark—” He jabbed his finger at the patch on Sully’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Sully touched the patch, the skull and crossbones, fingers tracing the shape like he was remembering something soft. “Just a symbol,” he said. “From… another life.”
Angus grunted. “It’s devil’s work, is what it is.” He turned to me. “And you, letting him sleep under your roof? Do you want to curse the rest of us?”
I bristled. “It’s no curse, Da. He’s come back for me.”
Mother tried to smooth things, as always. “It’s a blessing to have Sully home again. Maybe God sent him back to heal—”
“He looks like he’s seen the devil,” Da snapped, then turned on Sully. “And you—no one saw you taken from the grave.”
Sully stared at his hands, the ink on his forearm stark against the pale skin. “I don’t remember much,” he said. “Only waking up in a strange place. All I wanted was to get home.”
“A place where they dress men like whores and paint their skin with ink?” Da was almost shouting now. “Do you take us for fools?”
“Enough, Angus,” my mother said, voice shaking.
“There’s only us here, Mam,” I said, but the silence after made me feel as small as one.
Da’s eyes pinned me. “You’ve sisters, Catherine. Don’t forget your place. Or theirs.”
I set my spoon down, the clatter loud in the stillness. “I haven’t forgotten. But I’m not a child, and I won’t be told what to feel.”
He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping the floor. “So that’s it? You’ll follow him, even now?”
I met his stare, felt it burn all the way through. “I will.”
He slammed his fist on the table. “You can’t abandon this family for a man who walks out of the ground wearing the devil’s own garments!”