Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

“Know what you were thinking? It’s a special talent of mine. Getting inside people’s heads. And I really do think you should sit down.”

  Nora sat.

  “Are you . . .” She felt ridiculous saying it. “Saint Brigid?”

  The woman threw back her head and laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that filled the air around them. “Oh my child, no. Well, yes and no.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t! Oh, fine, I’ll spell it out, shall I? I was, for a time, the woman you call Saint Brigid. But I am so much more than that.”

  A wave of dizziness washed through her. Nora grabbed the back of the bench to steady herself. She wanted to believe . . . but something inside her still rebelled, even after everything she’d experienced. Have faith, she urged herself.

  “But you . . . you have all your fingers,” she blurted out. “The relic—”

  The woman laughed again, then wiggled her fingers in their ivory casings and leaned forward. “They say I once grew back an eye. If that’s true, a finger shouldn’t be much of a problem, should it?”

  “Did you give me those dreams? Was Thomas telling the truth?”

  The woman winked at Nora. “Thomas. Oh, yes, he was. I thought some of his stubbornness would have worn off after all these years, but he’s still as obstinate as a mule. Until now, that is.”

  “Do you know where he is? Is he okay?” Nora pushed aside the tornado of thoughts in her head—was she really speaking with a saint who had been dead for hundreds of years?—and forced herself to focus.

  Brigid—or whoever she was—patted Nora’s knee. “He’s fine. For now.”

  Nora exhaled loudly. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, I had very little to do with it. Thomas always wants to do everything himself. But . . . he needs you, Nora. Whether he likes it or not.”

  “Let me get this straight. Let’s say you are Saint Brigid—and I want to know how that works, but not right now . . . though how else would you know about the dreams and the time travel? But let’s say you are the one who started all this. Why did you send me here?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I have no idea. I thought it was to help Thomas. But he doesn’t want my help. The woman at the church said you have a plan, that you sent me here for a reason. What is it?” Nora leaned forward hungrily, lest Brigid disappear if she took her eyes off her for a second.

  “Let’s just say you and Thomas can help each other.”

  “I told you, he doesn’t want my help!”

  “Do any of us want what we truly need?” Brigid said.

  “Tell me the truth. I deserve at least that much.”

  “The truth is not mine to tell, Nora.”

  “Then who can?”

  “You can. You can discover it for yourself. Now stop with the questions. You’ve been given a second chance. Do you know how many people would do anything for that?”

  Nora glared at her, breathing heavily. A second chance. The only thing she had ever wanted since she was fifteen years old. Then a glorious thought swept the breath from her lungs. “Can you send me back?”

  “Back where, dear?”

  “Nineteen ninety-one. When Eamon was killed. No, the year before—when I fucked everything up by trying to sell those drugs. If I didn’t try to sell them, Eamon would never sign up. He would—”

  “I can’t send you back there, Nora.” Brigid’s eyes were cloudy.

  “Why the hell not? If you can send me to 1923, you can send me to 1990!”

  “Because that’s not where you’re meant to be. You’re meant to be here. Now.”

  “That’s shite, so it is! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here.” Her stomach ached, and her chest seared with loss. She’d hoped saving Eamon would be as easy as saving Roger.

  “You know exactly what you are supposed to do. What you need is a guide. Thomas knows how to find Liam Lynch.”

  She sat up straighter. “How do you—never mind. Do you know where Liam Lynch is?”

  Brigid pursed her lips. “I don’t.”

  “Well, where the bloody hell is Thomas?”

  “As I understand it, he’s being transferred to Kilmainham Gaol this afternoon, once all of your fellow prisoners have been removed.”

  Nora closed her eyes. “And how am I supposed to help him in there? I just got out myself.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “I can’t force him to accept my help.”

  “You won’t have to.” Brigid reached inside a pearl-adorned handbag and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “He asked me to give this to you.”

  Nora took it without opening it. “How do I know you didn’t forge this? Like you put those dreams in my head?”

  “I put those dreams in your head to get you here. And it worked. But now you’re on your own. Both of you. I’m just the messenger.”

  Nora unfolded the paper. It was a letter, written in the most elegant penmanship she’d ever seen.

  Dear Miss O’Reilly,

  It is with a humble heart that I must ask for your forgiveness. My behaviour has been appalling, especially in the face of your honest willingness to offer assistance to a stranger. I offer no excuses, only that I was taken aback by both your ferocity and your beauty.

  If our mutual friend has indeed delivered this letter, then you are aware of my present confinement. I would very much like to see you, if you are willing to overlook my boorish past behavior. Perhaps in person I can answer some of your questions—and ask some of my own.

  My dear Miss O’Reilly, I will speak plainly. I was wrong. I would very much like to accept your offer of assistance, if the offer still stands.

  Yours,

  Thomas Heaney

  Nora read the letter through twice, her heart rattling around in her rib cage. He was alive. And he wanted her help.

  “Well?” Brigid asked, leaning forward.

  Nora opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. “You say he knows how to find Lynch?”

  Brigid made a noncommittal noise, but her eyes sparkled.

  Nora stared down at the letter, then folded it and stuffed it up her sleeve. “I suppose I can go see him. But prisoners at Kilmainham aren’t allowed visitors. So I don’t know—”

  “Some prisoners are allowed visitors,” Brigid interrupted. “Under certain tragic circumstances. If you said you were his wife . . . or fiancée, even. They would have to let you say good-bye, after all.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? The day after tomorrow he’s going to be executed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brigid gave Nora a purse of money and the name of a friendly hotel. “Tell them Countess Markievicz sent you,” she said with a wink.

  “You’re not—”

  “She’s a dear friend. Won’t mind in the slightest. And Nora?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go easy on Thomas, will you? He’s not used to accepting help from others. Believe it or not, he’s even more stubborn than you are.”

  Brigid swooped down and kissed both of her cheeks, then walked away through the park. Nora watched her step behind a large stone monument, but no one emerged from the other side. She shook her head. Anything’s possible now.

  She checked into the hotel, where they upgraded her to a suite at the mention of the countess. On a glass table in the front room was a bottle of wine, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a packet of cigarettes. She tipped the porter and waited for him to leave. She uncorked the bottle and took a swig, forgoing the glass. Not bad. She took the cigarettes and wine into the bedroom, intent on collapsing on the bed for the rest of the day.

  But there was something on it. A dress. Hat. Shoes. Stockings. Gloves. Handbag. Hairbrush. A makeup palette. She set the wine and cigarettes down on the nightstand. Gently, she picked up the dress. It seemed so delicate it might fall apart in her hands. A cream underdress covered in delicate gold lace and embroidery. A cluster of pearls gathered the materia
l together at the waist. More pearls decorated the shoulder straps and the bodice.

  So this is what Brigid wanted her to wear to meet Thomas. She supposed it was better than what she had on now—a shapeless navy bag of a dress in sore need of a washing. She shed the navy dress and draped it over a chair. Then she gently hung up the cream dress in the closet and draped the stockings and gloves over a chair.

  She crawled into bed naked and lit up a smoke.

  Kilmainham felt like a different place when she arrived the next day. She made herself known to the sentry at the gate as Mr. Heaney’s fiancée. He gave her a pitying look, then showed her inside. Welcome back, the dragons whispered above her head.

  The jail was eerily silent. There were no prisoners milling about, no shouts across the corridor, no balls thudding against the walls in the exercise yard. No Julia, lying crumpled at the bottom of the steps, no Jo, fighting valiantly to protect her sisters. No Pidge.

  The guard knocked on Miss Higgins’s door, but it was not Miss Higgins who answered, thank God. Instead, a stern-faced man with thick eyebrows looked up from his desk when they entered.

  “Mr. Heaney’s fiancée, sir,” the guard said. “Here for her visit before . . .”

  “Before he is executed for being a worthless traitor,” the new warden said, standing. He gave Nora a cold stare. “Your name?”

  “Miss . . . Ryan. Nellie Ryan.”

  “All right. Show her up. You have ten minutes, Miss Ryan.”

  Nora hurried behind the guard up to the third floor. “It’s so quiet. Where are all the prisoners?” she asked.

  “Locked in their cells, o’course,” the guard answered.

  “Why? The women were allowed to move about freely.”

  “The men are more dangerous, I suppose.”

  I doubt that.

  He stopped outside a cell and knocked. Nora took a deep breath.

  “Yes?” called a voice from within. She recognized it even through the metal door.

  The guard answered. “A visitor for you. Your fiancée.”

  “You’re the one with the keys. Let her in.”

  The guard turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Thomas was sitting in a thin metal chair in the corner of the room, one foot resting on the other knee, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Hello,” he said. He stood and doffed his hat.

  The guard made to enter the room as well, but Nora gave him a pitiful look. “Could we have privacy, please? It’s the last time I’ll see my fiancé, after all.”

  The guard ducked his head. “Of course, miss.” He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  For several seconds, they just stared at each other.

  Thomas broke the silence. “Fiancé?”

  “It was the only way they’d let me see you.”

  “You look stunning.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I had a visit from our mutual friend.”

  He nodded. “She believes I’m a bit of an arse, if you’ll excuse my language.”

  “You are a bit of an arse. But I still owe you. For what happened at the farm.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner,” he said quietly. “I was trying to get into a position to shoot them all. I had no idea they’d take it as far as they did.” He closed the distance between them and gently lifted her hat, laying it on the bed. “May I?”

  She ducked her head ever so slightly. He reached behind her neck and untied the knot of the scarf she still wore. He folded it in half and set it aside. Then he touched her scalp with tender fingertips, taking care to avoid the wounds.

  Nora stood perfectly still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His fingertips brushed her cheek. The bruising had faded, but his thumb traced its outline.

  She stepped away. “Thomas. How can I help you? Your letter said—”

  “Yes. I know what I said. Brigid assured me I could trust you.”

  “Is she for real? I asked if she was the saint, and she just laughed and laughed.”

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and motioned for Nora to take the chair. She picked up her scarf and retied it, then sat.

  “She didn’t tell you?” he asked.

  “I have a feeling there’s a lot she’s not telling me.”

  He took a deep breath and looked toward the door. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What I’m going to say will sound impossible, but you must believe me.”

  “More impossible than—” Going back in time eighty-two years? But instead she said, “A saint appearing to me in the park?”

  “She’s not a saint. She’s a god.”

  “What?”

  “She is the goddess Brigid of the Tuatha Dé Danann. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

  “In children’s books, yes.” Anything is possible . . . right?

  “She enjoys injecting herself into the lives of humans. Sometimes it’s helpful. Other times . . . In any case, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “She seems convinced you can help me. Though I admit I cannot see it, I trust her. And so I trust you. You know about the execution order, I suppose?”

  “Yes, which is why we need to figure out a way to get you out of here.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “The truth, Miss O’Reilly, is that I cannot die. I am under a curse. I will not die until I have saved Ireland from her enemies.”

  Nora struggled to make sense of this. “You mean . . . you literally will not die? Or is this some kind of new Republican slogan?”

  “No, I literally will not die. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve thrown myself off the cliffs at Dun Aengus, I’ve tried to force a sword into my own heart, I’ve fashioned a noose out of every kind of material. And each time, I am defeated. The wind slows my fall, the sword shatters against my breast, the rope breaks. And tomorrow, when they try to shoot me, the guns will jam, or there will be an eleventh-hour postponement.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you want to die?”

  He folded and unfolded his hands in his lap. A lock of gray hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it away. “Because I have lived a very, very long time. I just want to go home. I don’t belong here anymore.”

  “How long?”

  His blue eyes met hers. “Over eighteen hundred years.”

  Nora snorted and stood. She paced the small cell. “That’s impossible. No one can live that long.”

  “No one should live that long. I told you: it’s a curse.”

  “And who put this so-called curse on you?”

  “Aengus Óg.”

  Nora stopped pacing. “Aengus Óg?”

  “Yes.” She stared at him, her mouth open. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just . . . This woman I met before I came here, the one who told me about Brigid. She said I was the ‘bane of Aengus Óg.’ I didn’t understand what it meant. I still don’t.”

  He exhaled slowly. “It means you are meant to help me break this curse.”

  Is that what this was all about? The dreams? Her arrival here in the past?

  She sat down and met his eyes. “I think, perhaps, we can help each other. Now it is time for you to believe me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I come . . .” Oh, God, this is going to sound crazy. But no crazier than living for almost two millennia. “I come . . . from the future.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

  She cleared her throat. “Two thousand five, to be exact. Like I told you, I’ve had several dreams about you. In the clearest one, you asked me—begged me—to come to Kildare and find Brigid. I thought she might just be an ordinary woman. Anyway, I just happened to be in Dublin, so I figured I might as well take a short trip to Kildare. I had a photograph of you that I’d found at my aunt’s house. It said . . . It had the date
1923 written on the back. It also said you were killed in action. Which according to you is impossible, right?”

  He nodded.

  “So . . . I went to the church, and I met this woman—a Brigidine Sister. She told me to hang on to one of Brigid’s relics, a finger bone of all things, and to think about you. It sounded crazy, but I did it. And then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was still in the church. But it was 1923.”

  She pressed her hands against her mouth. It was too much, to say this out loud, to acknowledge what had happened.

  His hands wrapped around hers. He brought them down to her lap and held them there. “Miss O’Reilly,” he whispered. “I believe you.”

  Tears—stupid, ridiculous tears—rose to her eyes, but she battled them back and forced her lips into a smile. “Call me Nora, please. And I believe you, too.” And why not? Was there anything she wouldn’t believe at this point? Reality was a different beast than she’d believed it to be.

  “So . . . you were right. And I behaved—” He shook his head.

  “Exactly as one would expect you to behave, given that a strange woman showed up out of nowhere and said she’d been dreaming about you.”

  He leaned back on the bed. “So what happens next?”

  “I think we both want the same thing. You want to save Ireland, right?” He nodded. “So do I. In my world, or timeline, or whatever it is, the Free State wins. And Ireland does become a republic eventually, which is grand, so it is. Except for—”

  “The North,” he finished. “The North stays with England, don’t they?”

  “Yes. The partition becomes permanent. And the war doesn’t stop. Not in the North, at any rate.”

  “And you’re a Volunteer in that war.”

  “I used to be. It’s over now. We lost.”

  “So you want to change history.”

  “Aye.”

  He pondered this for a moment. “How does the Free State win?”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s the problem. I’m a little sketchy on the details. If I had known—well, it’s too late now. All I know is that Liam Lynch will be killed in action on April 10. His successor gives the order to dump arms, which more or less ends the war. Lynch would have kept fighting.”