He grinned, teeth bloody. “It’s what priests do.”
Sully shifted his weight, wincing at the stab of his own wound. “What about the rest?” he asked. “My friends—Moab, Scarlette, and Mama Celeste. They’re in the castle dungeons.”
Declan’s face closed up. “Hale has waited two days past. He won’t wait any longer. They hang the rebels at dawn,” he said. “If you want to save them, you’ll have to move before then.”
Sully’s jaw tightened. “Then we don’t have a choice.”
I felt the world tilt under me, the old terror returning. But I looked at Sully, saw the resolve in his face, and knew I’d follow him. To hell or to the castle, it made no difference.
Declan drank a slug of whiskey, coughed, and leaned back. “If you’re really from another world, O’Toole, I hope you know how to break a man out of prison.”
Sully just smiled. “I do.”
I cleaned the blood from my hands, then touched the leather ring on my finger, the knot already darkened from use. I caught Sully watching, and he smiled, tired but true.
In the hush that followed, I heard a raven caw in the yard. The wind rattled the door. The world outside was waiting to eat us alive.
We didn’t waste time. As soon as Father Declan could stand, he hobbled to the hearth and started pawing through my mother’s basket of kindling, searching for something. When he pulled out a fat, greasy stub of old charcoal, his face lit up in a way that made him look about twenty years younger.
“Clear the table,” he barked, and Sully swept the crusts and cups to the floor. I half expected my mother’s ghost to rise up and slap him, but nothing happened. The world was holding its breath.
Declan pulled a crumpled page from inside his cloak—a prayer, a curse, or just the dregs of some old letter. He smoothedit flat with his bloody palm, set his thumb to the edge, and started to draw.
He sketched fast, hard. Lines like black stitches. “This is Kilkenny Castle,” he said, voice low, “where they keep the worst of the rebels and the best of the beer.” He grinned at his own joke, then drew a set of blocks at the bottom. “This is the dungeon. There’s a river behind it, and in the old days, there was a mill. The tunnel starts here.” He stabbed at the page, leaving a smudge.
Sully leaned in, his nose almost touching the ink. “How do you know this?”
Declan didn’t look up. “Used to run with the wrong crowd. Old priests and old rebels always end up in the same tunnels, just for different reasons.”
I watched his hands. They shook, but the lines were true. He marked the entrance, the route, and the exits. “Most of the guards are lazy. They’d rather drink than patrol. The only danger is the changing of the shifts.” He glanced at Sully. “You’ll need to time it right.”
Sully nodded. “We can do that.”
Declan added a few more notes—sigils, shortcuts, and an X where the wall was thin enough to break. “If you can get your friends out, the river will cover your tracks. There’s a boat under the old bridge. I hid it there for a day like this.”
He pushed the map to Sully, then sat back, exhausted. “Don’t lose it,” he said. “It’s the only one.”
Sully folded the page, tucked it into his jacket, and clasped Declan’s hand. For a second, I thought the two men might cry. Instead, they just stared at each other, the kind of look you only get from sharing too many sins in too short a time.
Declan turned to me. “You should go with them, Catherine. The English want you almost as bad as they want O’Toole. You’re a symbol now, even if you never asked for it.”
I bristled. “I’m nobody’s symbol.”
He smiled, sad. “Sometimes you don’t get to choose.”
I grabbed my shawl and filled a jar with water from the bucket. “Is there anything else?” I asked, trying to sound braver than I felt.
“Just this,” Declan said, his voice dropping. He gestured to Sully, and I knew he wanted to talk without me. I didn’t like it, but I left them to it, stepping out to the yard, to the cold and the crow-calls and the ache of parting.
The sky was turning, morning eating away the dark. I scooped a handful of the old well water and splashed it on my face. The cold was a slap. It helped. I listened to the murmur of voices inside, too soft to catch, but I recognized the tone—a confession, an absolution, maybe even a last wish.
When I went back in, Sully stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. Declan slumped in the chair, gray and spent. They both looked at me like I was the last good thing in the world.
I tried to lighten the mood. “If you’re finished saving souls, Father, I’d like to steal your best coat.” I held up the old brown cloak from the peg by the door. “You won’t need it for sneaking.”
Declan laughed, a bark that ended in a cough. “Take it, girl. May it keep the devil off your back.”
Sully smiled, just a flash, but I saw the way his jaw set when he looked at me. “Are you ready?” he asked.