by Jodi McIsaac
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.”
Nora swiveled to face Fionn. “Did you know her?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure, no,” he said. His face seemed flushed. “I’ve heard the stories, of course.”
“How can she help us?” Nora asked Brigid, but the goddess was already getting to her feet.
“I’ll leave that for the three of you to figure out,” she said with a wink.
“You’re going to send us back in time without telling us what we’re supposed to change?” Nora protested, also standing, cringing again at the pain.
“I daresay you’ll discover it soon enough. But you won’t get far on that leg. Allow me.” Brigid placed her smooth white hand over the gunshot wound in Nora’s leg, and immediately the pain disappeared.
“Jesus Christ,” Nora breathed, running her own hand over the spot Brigid had touched.
“He’s not the only one who knows a thing or two about healing,” Brigid said.
Fionn stood beside her and gripped her hand, as though what had just happened was no big deal. “Are you sure about this, Nora? Going farther back?”
She squeezed his fingers and gave him a lopsided smile, bolstered by Brigid’s display of power. “It’s the sixteenth century. How hard can it be?”
His expression was serious. “It was a very different time. You have no idea—”
“That’s why I’ll have you. You are coming, aren’t you?”
He looked from her to Brigid. “What do you think?”
She gazed at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. “My dear, this is your curse we’re talking about. I, for one, have always been rather fond of second chances.”
“Don’t you want to be free, Fionn?” Nora whispered.
He loo
ked at her with his stormy blue eyes, and something smoldered deep in her chest. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
“Well, that’s settled, then!” Brigid clapped her hands and stood up, ushering them out of the pew.
“Do we need . . . the relic?” Nora asked. “I don’t know where it is.”
“I have it, of course,” Brigid said. She handed Nora the tiny red box holding the finger bone. “Now come, keep holding hands. Concentrate very hard. Think about Granuaile. Fifteen ninety-two should do it, I think.”
Nora tightened her grip on Fionn’s hand. “Bran!” he called, and the wolfhound came bounding down the aisle. Fionn buried his free hand in Bran’s fur. Brigid put her arms around them all, and Nora clutched the relic in her palm. She caught a faint whiff of smoke and roses before the goddess whispered, “Ádh mór ort, my children. May luck follow you.”
The last thing Nora knew was the sensation of falling.
Historical Note
Writing historical fantasy requires a fine balance between the factual and the fantastical. I strove for historical accuracy regarding the Troubles and the Irish Civil War. As for the possibility of time travel . . . I’ll leave that for you to decide.
Some of the characters in this novel actually existed or are based on real people. Likewise, I’ve tried to stay as close as possible to the historical record when describing the events and the timeline of the Civil War. A few items of note: The method of Thomas’s escape from Kilmainham Gaol was inspired by the 1921 escape of Ernie O’Malley, who described it in his memoir On Another Man’s Wound. Likewise, Frankie Halpin’s ordeal is based on the Ballyseedy massacre, in which Stephen Fuller was the sole survivor.
As far as I am aware, there was never a secret deal between Liam Lynch and W. T. Cosgrave to keep Northern Ireland part of the Free State. And the forcible removal of the women from Kilmainham Gaol actually occurred three weeks after the death of Liam Lynch.
The notes that Jo, Lena, and Pidge write in Nora’s autograph book in Kilmainham are taken from the autograph books of Republican prisoners in the Civil War. Jo’s note was written by Hanna O’Connor, Lena’s by Annie Fox, and Pidge’s by Bridie Halpin.
And as for Fionn mac Cumhaill? Legend has it that he is not dead, but only sleeping—waiting to return to save Ireland at the hour of her greatest need.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to both friends and strangers who have given hours of their time to the betterment of this book.
I am very grateful to Liz Gillis of Kilmainham Gaol, Niall Cummins of Trinity College Dublin, Tom McCutcheon of the Kildare Town Heritage Centre, and Mario Corrigan of Kildare Library and Arts Services for their invaluable assistance as I strove for historical accuracy. Any faux pas that remain are mine alone.
Michael Perkins, Lucy Cox, Lesley-Elaine Caldwell, Gemma Gallagher, Melissa Giles, Shawn Plummer, Karmen McNamara, and Ewa Gillies shared from their deep wells of knowledge on everything from Catholicism to the Darfur crisis to Belfast curse words.
Thank you to my marvelous first readers, who gave extremely helpful feedback: Erika Holt, Jessica Corra, Mike Martens, Kari Petzold, Janice Hillmer, Janelle de Jager, and Adam Cole.
As always, I’m so thankful for my editor, Angela Polidoro, and the wonderful team at 47North, in particular Adrienne Lombardo, Jason Kirk, and Britt Rogers. Your enthusiasm surrounding this book is both encouraging and inspiring.
About the Author
Photo © 2015 F8 Photography
Jodi McIsaac is the author of several novels, including A Cure for Madness and the Thin Veil series. She grew up in New Brunswick, on Canada’s east coast. After abandoning her Olympic speed skating dream, she wrote speeches for a politician, volunteered in a refugee camp, waited tables in Belfast, earned a couple of university degrees, and started a boutique copywriting agency. She loves running, geek culture, and whiskey.
