I nodded, not trusting my voice. I took the map from him, held it in my hand, and pressed my thumb to the black X. “We’ll get them out,” I promised. “All of them.”
Declan leaned on the table, his hand trembling as he lifted the glass. “God go with you both.”
Sully bent down, took the old man’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he said.
Declan squeezed back. “Take care, O’Toole. If you get her killed, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days.”
Sully’s face softened, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “I’d expect nothing less.”
I reached for my bag—the one my mother had sewn for the harvest, lined with scraps from all the dresses she’d ever worn. Sully came up behind me, close enough that his breath tickled my ear.
“Wait,” he said.
He took out his knife—a short, ugly thing, blade notched from use. Without a word, he cut a lock of his own hair, then handed me the knife. “Your turn,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I hesitated, then cut a strand from behind my ear. He took both, twisted them together, and tied them with the same leather that matched my ring. He made a braid, small and tight, then pressed it into my palm.
“A piece of us both,” he said. “If we get separated.”
I clutched it hard, feeling the prickle of the hair, the firmness of the leather. “We won’t be.”
He smiled, but I saw the truth in his eyes.
Declan watched, silent. He didn’t bless us, didn’t pray. Just nodded, and I think that meant more.
Sully slipped the knife back into his boot. “Ready?”
We left the priest by the fire, wrapped in his own blood and hope. The sky outside had gone full morning. The world was waiting, knives out.
Catherine
Before we could step from the house, Maeve stormed in, skirt dripping bog water, hair pinned so tight her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut bread. She stomped her boots, then stopped dead when she saw Sully in the middle of the room. The lines in her face cut deeper; she set her jaw, and all the warmth drained out of the house.
Nora trailed behind, thinner and quieter than ever, hovering at the threshold like a stray cat. She had her hands tucked under her armpits, eyes flicking from Maeve’s back to Sully to me, like she was clocking a tally only she could read.
Nobody spoke for a heartbeat. You could hear the wind in the chimney, the tick of the cooling kettle, the thud-thud of my own pulse. Then Maeve locked eyes with me and spat, “You said he was dead.”
Her voice was a whip, the kind that left a welt. I winced but kept my chin up. “He was,” I said. “Now he’s not.”
She snorted, sharp and mean. “And you expect us to just believe that? After we buried him? After you wept enough to salt the fields?”
I glanced at Sully. He stood by the hearth, hands loose at his sides, face set in that strange calm he wore when everything was one bad turn from going up in flames. He didn’t say a word. That was his talent—he could make silence mean more than shouting.
Maeve crossed her arms. “So what’s this, then? A trick? Some black magic you cooked up with the priest?” Her eyes cut to Father Declan’s battered coat, still drying by the stove.
Nora piped up, barely above a whisper. “Maybe it’s not even him, Maevie. Maybe it’s something else, wearing his face.” She’d always been the spookier one.
“Don’t be daft,” I snapped, but the words sounded hollow, even to me. I wanted to step between them, block Sully from the force of Maeve’s glare, but my legs wouldn’t move.
Sully’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “If I was a demon, I’d have picked a better set of trousers,” he said, nodding at the ruined jeans and the dark crusted blood on his left leg.
Maeve ignored him, eyes locked on me. “We came to bring you news, Catherine. The Kelly boy from down the lane—dead, shot clean through by the Redcoats at the bog. Mrs. Kelly’s gone mad, and Father says they’ll come for us next.” She jerked a thumb at Sully. “If you’re running off, now’s the time. But don’t drag us into your delusions. We’ll not dig another grave for you, not this week.”
It hit, sharper than I expected. I wanted to explain, but the only words that came out were, “We’re leaving tonight. It’s safer that way.”
Nora’s face fell, and for a second, I saw the little girl she’d been, all gap-tooth and clinging to my skirts. “But what about the farm? What about Mam and Da?” Her voice wobbled.
I touched her cheek, but she flinched away, embarrassed, then tried to cover by picking at the frayed sleeve of her dress. “You’ll manage. Maeve knows how to run the fields, and you’ve always been clever. We can’t stay, not with Sully here. Not with what’s coming.”