Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (26 page)

She didn’t have strength to argue.

When she woke, a nun was standing at the foot of her bed, writing on a clipboard.

“Hello?” Nora croaked. Her throat felt stuffed with cotton.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the nun said. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been shot.”

The nurse smiled. “You’ll be fine. Didn’t hit anything major, just muscle tissue. Would you like to see Eamon?”

“E . . . Eamon?” Had it worked, after all? Was she back in 2005? Was her brother somehow alive?

“You’ve been asking for him since we gave you something for the pain. I assume he’s the gentleman waiting outside? Tall, gray hair?”

Nora stared up at the ceiling. Of course. “No. Eamon is—was—my brother. He’s . . . not here.”

The nurse flushed. “Ah. I’m sorry. Well, your friend outside has been very attentive. Would you like me to bring him in?”

“Aye.”

She stared at a long crack in the ceiling, dividing the room in two. What now? She could go to Kildare, find the Brigidine Sisters, explain to them what had happened. She’d tried to help Thomas—Fionn. She’d done everything she could, but it hadn’t worked. She could ask them to send her back—if they could. Or . . .

Fionn entered the room, cap in his hands, blood still staining his clothes. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live.”

He sat on the metal chair next to the bed and scraped it forward. “They tell me it’s not serious. Your wound.”

She nodded, still looking at the ceiling.

“Thought you might like to know they brought Lynch here as well.”

Now
she looked at him. “He’s not . . . ?”

“He’s dead. So’s the man who shot him—O’Casey. They’re saying it was a Free State ambush. At least, that’s the story they’re putting out to the public.”

She huffed and sank farther back into her pillows. “O’course.”

He pulled out a cigarette but didn’t light it. Instead he twirled it through his fingers, his eyes unfocused. “You know, I honestly thought it would work this time.” He shook his head and lit the cigarette. “How stupid of me.”

“You can’t smoke that in here.”

He looked honestly perplexed. “Why not?”

“Never mind. Give me a drag.”

He passed it over to her, and she inhaled slowly. That was better.

“You don’t think . . . I mean, he’s dead, but it happened a day early,” he said. “You don’t think that will change anything?”

She could tell he was trying to be nonchalant, but the hope in his voice was audible. She wished she had a different answer for him. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think so. The date isn’t what’s important. The deal with Cosgrave is dead; that’s all that matters. Not that it was ever a real possibility, from what you said. They’ll still carve up the country. Everything will happen as it did.”

He nodded, his face tightening. “I heard something else. That guard who helped me escape. He was an O’Reilly.”

“I know.”

“Any relation?”

“My great-uncle.”

“Did he know—”

“Who I was? No. But the date of his death was written on the back of a picture at my aunt’s house. I warned him, and he stayed home that day, so he lived. I thought it would work the same with Lynch, but . . .”

Fionn looked at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

“What is it?”

“He was arrested. Apparently I wasn’t the only prisoner he tried to free. They caught him smuggling bolt cutters to a couple of the others. He was executed this morning.”

No. Roger . . .
Nora could only stare at the ceiling while tears pressed out of the corners of her eyes.
What have I done?
She lifted a hand and crossed herself.

Fionn grabbed her hand and held it. “Don’t beat yourself up. I can’t say I understand this whole coming-back-in-time thing, but . . . the way I look at it, he would have died anyway. It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t say that. It
is
my fault. I gave him the idea; I goaded him into helping me. And it was all for nothing.
Nothing
has changed.”

“You don’t know that for certain.” But his voice betrayed him. He knew they had lost. She had failed in every way possible.

“That’s the thing, I do. I
know
what happens next. The government will take the easy way out. Hand over Northern Ireland. They’ll say it’s only temporary, but it’s not.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Her leg was starting to throb. She closed her eyes, wishing she could fall asleep and wake up on her cot in Sudan in 2005. Wishing this exercise in futility hadn’t happened.

“You say—you said the war ends, soon after Lynch’s death?”

“Aye. I can’t remember who it was, but the man who took over from Lynch gave the order to stand down and dump arms. It’ll happen soon. They’ll say Lynch’s death ended the war.”

He dropped her hand. “Nora . . . you really want to keep this war going?”

She squinted at him. “Only for as long as it takes us to win it.”

“But you said we do get a republic, eventually. So, we do win, in the end.”

“Twenty-six counties do, aye.”

“A partial victory is better than none, don’t you think?”

“Not if you’re the part that loses.”

He stood up and looked out the window. “I understand, I do. But you haven’t lived through the last several centuries of war. Your people—our people—have suffered so much.
So
much. I’m not glad Lynch is dead. I wish we could have changed things. Believe me, I want it more than anyone.” He turned back to her, a rueful smile on his face. “Maybe I’m just used to losing by now. But I’m glad the war’s going to be over soon. For the people’s sake.”

“Some of the people,” she corrected. “The war isn’t over for everyone.”

She turned over and closed her eyes.

“There will be another chance,” he said. “There’s still hope.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in hope.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

She didn’t respond. She could imagine him standing behind her, silhouetted by the window, contemplating her with his ancient gaze. What had started out as a lark, a few foolish dreams, had turned into so much more. But for what? Lynch was dead. Roger was dead. Maybe the past couldn’t be changed, after all.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said, but made no move to leave the room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nora left the hospital two days later, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. The nuns had laundered her dress for her. She felt ridiculous, dressed in cream and lace and hobbling along, wincing at every step.

Fionn and Bran were waiting for her outside.

“Hello, Bran,” she murmured before Fionn helped her into his carriage.

“I thought the carriage might be more comfortable,” Fionn said. “I had the motorcycle returned yesterday. Do you still want to see Mrs. Gillies?”

“Aye. I need to do what I can to make amends.”
And I need to say good-bye.

“I brought you this,” Fionn said, handing her the handgun she thought she’d lost in the chaos at Lynch’s hideout. “You seem to have a knack for getting yourself into situations where you need one.” Nora smiled and tucked the gun into her beaded handbag, beside her rosary.

Bran ran behind the carriage as they bumped along the road. Nora braced her leg with her hands, trying to minimize the pain. After they’d traveled for a few silent minutes, she said, “I have a plan.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Fionn said, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

She didn’t return his smile. Her last plan hadn’t worked out for anyone. There was no guarantee this one would, either. But she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. “I need to see Brigid.”

The light faded from his face. “One does not summon Brigid. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Nora scowled. “Then how do you speak with her?”

“She shows herself. At her own leisure.”

“But what if you need her help?”

“I’ve needed—or wanted—her help many times in my life. Turns out I can handle most problems myself. Of course, I’d like to think she’s keeping an eye on me.” He smirked. “But that’s probably wishful thinking on my part.”

“I think she cares about you more than you realize,” Nora said, remembering the tenderness in Brigid’s voice when she spoke of “Thomas.”

“Perhaps,” he said wistfully. “She has been my only constant these many years. She and Bran.”

“Which is why she sent me to help you lift your curse.”

He turned so that he was facing her directly. “I’ve been thinking about that. How exactly did she intend for you to do that? I mean, why you in particular?”

Nora stared at the road ahead. She’d been asking herself that same question. “I don’t know. I think it means I need to help you save Ireland. That’s what I thought I was doing with Lynch. Only . . .”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“But that doesn’t mean it can’t.” She held his gaze fast. “You said it yourself: there will be another chance. Just because we messed this one up doesn’t mean it’s the end. For either of us.”

“So that’s your plan? To try again? Using your knowledge of the future?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“Then why do you need Brigid?”

Nora didn’t answer. She didn’t want to get his expectations up. She was saved by their arrival at the McQuarrys.

“Wait here while I inquire,” Fionn said. “No sense in you moving if there’s no one here.”

Mrs. McQuarry met him at the front door. They had a hurried chat; then Fionn returned. “She’s gone back home.”

“Back? To what?”

“You’ll see.”

A few minutes later he pulled up in their yard. Half a dozen men and women were hard at work, re-thatching the roof and repairing the furniture.

“Nora!” Mrs. Gillies came running across the yard as Fionn helped her down from the carriage. Mrs. Gillies gasped. “Whatever has happened to you?”

“I was shot,” Nora said grimly. “It’s a long story.”

“God between us and all harm, will it not end?” Mrs. Gillies exclaimed. “Are you all right, Thomas?”

“I am, Mrs. Gillies, thank you. And you?”

“Well, so much better now that Pidge is home.”

“Wait, what?” Nora said, spinning around and then wincing as pain shot through her leg. “Pidge is home?”

“They released her yesterday,” Mrs. Gillies said happily. “Along with the rest of the hunger strikers.”

“And . . . how is she?” Nora held her breath.

“She’s weak, to be sure, but they didn’t let it go on too long, thankfully.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course. She’s been asking about you. Come along, now.”

Fionn went to join the men re-thatching the roof, and Nora followed Mrs. Gillies inside. An elderly woman was sweeping black dust out through the front door. She gave Nora a toothless smile as they squeezed past her.

“I’ve had so much help,” Mrs. Gillies said. “All the neighbors have come round. They all have their own share of troubles but have spared me no kindness.”

The inside of the house was taking shape again. A couple of chairs had survived, and one of the beds. The unbroken crockery and pots had been cleaned and were stacked next to a huge basket of peat bricks near the fire. Something savory was cooking in the pot hanging over the flames.

“She’s in there,” Mrs. Gillies said, pointing toward Pidge’s old room. “I’ll leave you to say hello, now.”

Nora crept toward the doorway, then peered inside. Pidge was lying on a straw mattress on the floor, covered in thick blankets. An empty bowl and spoon were on the floor beside her.

“Ah, Nora, God bless you,” Pidge said as soon as Nora stepped into the room. “Ma said you’d gone off and done something reckless.”

“I did, I suppose. How are you feeling?” Pidge’s cheeks were sunken and pale, but her eyes sparkled.

“I’ll be all right. Told you the bastards would let me out.”

“Aye. I’m glad. Pidge . . . I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. We all have to make our own decisions. I was wrong to fault you for yours.”

Nora eased herself down onto the floor next to Pidge’s bed.

“Jesus, Nora! What’s happened to you?” Pidge exclaimed.

“It’s nothing,” Nora answered. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Me? I’ll be back to normal after a week of Ma’s cooking. But what’s wrong with your leg?”

Haltingly, Nora told her the tale—or part of it, anyway. She refused to say how she knew Lynch was going to be killed, and after a while Pidge let it drop.

“So that’s why you needed to leave Kilmainham,” Pidge said.

“Aye. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“But he was killed anyway.”

Nora nodded grimly.

Pidge stared up at the ceiling. “They’re saying it’s near the end. That we’re going to lose.”

“Maybe. But there’s still hope. I set out to change the course of history for Ireland. And I’m not giving up. I’m going to change things for all of us.”

“How?”

Nora shook her head. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

Pidge took her hand. Amazed at how thin and frail it seemed, Nora held it gently. “They say Da and Stephen might be executed. Whatever you’re going to do . . . will it save them?”

Nora’s heart constricted. “I don’t know—not for sure. But . . . I have hope.” Pidge’s eyelids fluttered, and her grip on Nora’s hand weakened. “I’ll leave you to get some rest,” Nora said. “You know, I didn’t expect to find you here. But I’m very glad I did.” She leaned over and kissed Pidge on the forehead.

“Good luck, Nora. Ireland needs more women like you.”

Nora hobbled out of the room, fighting the lump in her throat. How was it possible that she’d grown to love these people so deeply in so little time? She tore herself away from Pidge, from Mrs. Gillies, from this family that had taken her in and treated her as one of their own. Her lips moved in a silent prayer for their safety. In the yard she found Fionn hoisting timber up to another man on the roof.

“Can you take me into Kildare?” she asked him. “It’s as good a place as any to look for Brigid.”

“She’s not going to be just hanging out in Kildare, you know,” he said with an arched eyebrow. “The whole world is her playground.”

“The Brigidine Sisters might have a way of contacting her,” she said stubbornly.

Fionn sighed and wiped his hands on his trousers.

“Fine. And if we can’t find her, then what? What’s your plan? To return to your own time? Is that even possible?” He glared at the ground as he said this.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. First she had to find Brigid. Then she could start thinking about plan B.

Fionn seemed sullen as they drove toward Kildare.
He’s disappointed it didn’t work with Lynch.
How many times had he tried to save Ireland—and failed? Had he really been there during the Norman invasion, during all the failed uprisings in the centuries that followed? She didn’t think this was the time to ask him.

He hitched the horse outside Saint Brigid’s Cathedral while Nora limped inside. “Hello? Bernadette?” she called. The Brigidine Sister had been waiting for her last time—would she still be around? Did she even live in Kildare? “Hello?” she called again. “Is anyone here?”

There she was. The same woman, the same shawl, sitting in the same pew as last time. Nora edged toward her, then hesitated. Was this woman always at the church? The coincidence seemed . . . odd.

“Bernadette?” She walked slowly up the aisle toward her. Bernadette turned.

“Hello, Nora.”

“Did Brigid tell you I was coming?”

“Yes.”

“I need to speak with her.”

“She knows.”

“Where is she?”

Bernadette waved her hand at the pew beside her. “Don’t be so hasty, child. Have a seat—that looks painful.”

“It’s fine.” Nora stayed standing. She could hear Fionn enter the church, but he didn’t approach.

“Did you find your young man?” Bernadette said with a wink. Nora frowned.

“Yes, but—”

“And tell me”—the woman leaned forward—“what did you think of him?”

“What?”

“He’s handsome, is he not?”

What was going on here? Nora looked around them. Fionn was hovering at the back, pretending to look at one of the sarcophagi. “He’s grand. But I really need to speak with Brigid.”

Bernadette’s bottom lip stuck out in what was unmistakably a pout. “‘He’s grand,’ you say. Well, there’s still time, I suppose. Yes, I can help you. What do you want with our blessed saint?”

“It’s . . . personal.”

“Personal! There’s a good start.”

Nora stared at her. Then she heard Fionn come up behind her.

“Hello, Brigid,” he said.

Nora spun around to face him. “
Brigid?
”

A wry smile flickered across his face. “Can’t you tell?”

When she turned back to Bernadette, the woman’s auburn hair and wrinkled skin were gone. Brigid’s wide mouth was stretched in a grin, and her peat-black hair hung loose around her shoulders.

“I can never fool you,” she said to Fionn with an affectionate wink. “Now sit, both of you, and tell me your tale.”

“How did you—” Nora whispered to Fionn as he helped her into the pew, but he simply shook his head. “When you’ve known Brigid for hundreds of years, you’ll be able to recognize her no matter what the disguise. She has a certain . . . irrepressible spirit, you might say.”

“You flatter me,” Brigid said, beaming.

Nora felt strangely small, sitting between two such legendary figures. For the umpteenth time, the thought
What am I doing here?
stabbed at her mind, but she dismissed it. It didn’t matter why she was here. What mattered was what she could do with it.

“How much do you already know?” Nora said.

“Let’s pretend I don’t know anything,” Brigid said, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.

Fionn and Nora told her about his escape from prison, their flight from the Free State soldiers, and the unsuccessful attempt to save Liam Lynch’s life. As she spoke, Nora gained confidence.

“Obviously, it didn’t work,” she said, learning forward. “Because of that arse O’Casey. But it could have. If we could have gotten him away safely, things would be different. So I have a new plan. But I need your help.”

“Mmm?” Brigid hummed.

“I need you to send us further back.”

Fionn gaped at her. “What?”

“Don’t you see? You need to save Ireland to lift your curse. I need to prevent the Troubles—the war in Northern Ireland—to save my brother. We’re too far down the path here—too many things have already been set in motion. Maybe that’s why it didn’t happen the way we’d hoped. But if we can go further back, think of how many lives we can change.”

Fionn was frowning. Why wasn’t he excited about this?

“Nora, it won’t work. I can’t travel through time.”

“Why not? If I can, surely you can.” She turned to Brigid. “Right? You can send both of us.”

Brigid regarded her carefully, not looking at Fionn. Then she spoke slowly. “I believe I can.”

“See?” Nora said, grinning.

“Why have you never mentioned this before?” he asked Brigid. “We’ve known each other all these years, and you never told me you had the power to send people through time.”

She reached across Nora and patted his leg. “Because, dear, you were very good at moving forward. At enduring.”

“So you’ll do it?” Nora asked.

“Do you have a particular time in mind?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. But I really don’t know what would work the best. You’ve both lived through the far past. When would we have the most impact? The War of Independence? The Easter Rising?”

“I was thinking a little farther back than that, actually,” Brigid said, the tips of her fingers pressed together. “I think you should pay a visit to a friend of mine.”

“And who’s that?” Fionn asked. Nora grew suddenly nervous. What kinds of friends was a goddess likely to make?

“Gráinne Ní Mháille,” Brigid said.

“Gráinne Ní Mháille?” Fionn repeated. “You mean Granuaile? The pirate queen of Connaught?”

“The very one.” Brigid beamed. “Are you familiar with her, Nora?”

Nora was still digesting this. She had been thinking of going back a dozen years, maybe fifty at the most. But the notorious pirate Grace O’Malley, more commonly known as Granuaile, had lived in the sixteenth century . . . over four hundred years ago.

“Aye, a bit,” she answered. “My brother used to tell me stories, and I’ve read stories about her. Did you really know her?”

“I know everyone worth knowing, dear. I think the two of you will get along quite well.”