The air stank of tallow and rotten potatoes. The English did their work well. We kept walking, breath fogging even in the noon sun, feet raw from the bad fit of stolen boots. I took point when the hedgerow grew too tight for two abreast, hacking at bramble with a stick I’d sharpened against the old church stones. There was no sound but the wind and the dry whisper of dead grass. The world had stopped, and left us behind.
I glanced at Catherine’s belly, felt the old urge to wrap her up in both arms and run, but she’d never forgive me for coddling her in front of Maeve. Instead, I watched her neck, the way her hair stuck to it in sweaty lines, and tried to memorize every inch.
“Rest,” Declan muttered, falling behind at the edge of a stand of thinned larch. We stopped. Maeve drew Catherine away from me, which hurt more than the bullet that took my last life. Nora hovered, not sure where to stand, so she just kicked at the ground, sending chips of stone flying.
I checked the horizon. We weren’t far from the Flannery place, maybe a mile. If we cut through the orchard, we could lose anyone following, but the old creek there was as good as a tripwire for ambush.
Declan sat on a flat stone, peeled up the hem of his robe, and dabbed at the gash just above his knee. Blood oozed, slow and dark. I tore a strip from my sleeve and handed it over, then crouched beside him.
“How bad?” I asked.
He gave a weak grin. “I’ve had worse from a chicken.”
I wanted to laugh, but the memory of Scar’s last stand at the castle made my mouth taste like copper. “We’ll make it to the graveyard,” I promised.
Declan’s eyes flicked to Catherine. “And then?”
I shrugged. “Then it’s her choice. Not mine.”
He finished binding his leg, then nodded toward her. “She’s not the only one you need to convince, Sully.”
I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew.
We moved out when the wind picked up, the brambles rattling like bones. I took the lead again, and within a hundred paces, the path narrowed to a tunnel through hawthorn and yew. The branches clawed at my arms, snagged in the jagged holes of my jacket, but the pain kept me present. The air was cooler here, close, and the stink of the outside world faded for a minute. I could hear Catherine’s breathing behind me, ragged and shallow. The baby would be the size of a bean by now, or maybe a mouse. I wondered if it would look like me, or like her, or like neither. I wondered if I’d live to find out.
The world exploded at the next bend.
Three English soldiers stepped out from behind a toppled stone cross, rifles up, uniforms patched but clean. Their faces were blank, not even curious. The lead man aimed at my chest and barked, “Papers!”
I stopped dead. The air crystallized, the world shrinking to the four feet between the gun’s muzzle and my heart. I didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at the man, memorizing the angle of hisjaw, the nicks in his bayonet, the way his finger hovered above the trigger.
Catherine gasped behind me. I heard Nora mutter a curse. Declan went very still.
“We’re just passing through,” I said, voice flat. “No trouble.”
The soldier’s accent was wrong for this part of Ireland. He was London or close, and the way he said “trouble” made it sound like a joke. “Papers,” he said again, and the other two spread out, one covering the group, the other moving along the edge of the path to flank us.
I let my hands dangle empty at my sides, the universal sign for “not armed.” The trick was to keep them calm, to let them think you were scared but not desperate. I did scared well. I’d had a lot of practice.
“Stay behind me,” I said, just loud enough for Catherine and the others.
The lead man took a step forward. “You look wrong,” he said, eyeing my jacket and the ink at my wrist. “What are you?”
I smiled, and felt my face twist into something ugly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
He didn’t like that. “On your knees. All of you.”
Nora shrieked, but Maeve grabbed her and forced her down. Catherine knelt slow, hand still on her belly. Declan lowered himself, careful of his leg.
I didn’t move.
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “I said on your knees.”
I glanced at Catherine. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out. She was praying, or cursing, or both.
I knelt, but only to get closer to the ground. When the gunman stepped in, I watched his boots, his stance. He wasn’t used to mud, not the way locals were. His feet splayed, shifting for traction. That was all I needed.
He jammed the barrel against my forehead. “You deaf, mate?”