Miriam scrubbed the floor hard enough to wear away the tiles, out of pent-up frustration. Her fingers hurt from gripping the scrub brush. Backbreaking chores and rigid discipline she could stand; it was better than being dead. She bore the unceasing worry about her family silently.
The overwhelming dread of exposure had lessened to a muted, constant presence after several weeks of adapting to the environment. Maire—and Bridget, which had surprised Miriam—had coached her after lights-out on the words and gestures of the Catholics’ prayer rituals. She knew the other two were bursting with curiosity but were smart enough not to ask questions. She appreciated it. Given that she’d grown to cautiously like them, she didn’t want to lie to them more than she could help.
“Annie,” Bridget said from the other end of the room, “you’re exhausting me to watch you.”
Miriam looked over at Bridget. The other girl’s auburn braid swung almost into her bucket of soapy water.
“Sorry.” Miriam shrugged and kept scrubbing. Her biceps ached.
“Besides,” Bridget said more acerbically, “no matter how clean it is, it won’t be good enough.”
Miriam nodded, frowning. She’d learned that lesson quickly at the hands—and ruler—of Sister Margaret. And when Sister Margaret had discussed Judaism in Church history lessons today, Miriam had bitten her lip to keep her mouth shut. Lying, prejudiced—Miriam scrubbed furiously.
If she weren’t hiding for her life, she’d teach Sister Margaret a lesson or two about Judaism and Jews. And if she didn’t suspect the nun of trying to bait her into exposing herself.
“Annie,” Bridget repeated impatiently, “I said—”
“Ah, isn’t that a precious sight, Sister Fiona’s little pet on her knees,” another voice interrupted.
Miriam tensed. Deirdre O’Fain, the class bully, had taken an instant dislike to her. So far she had avoided confrontation.
“I’m talking to you, Annie,” the fair-haired girl said with a sneer.
Miriam kept her head down but stayed alert. When Deirdre bent down to snatch at her braid, she uncoiled upward. She hadn’t grown up knowing how to fight, but recent experience had taught her. Brutally.
She punched the other girl hard in the stomach. As Deirdre doubled over, Miriam tackled her, knowing that if she didn’t win decisively, Deirdre would only be more trouble.
Deirdre—caught off guard—went tumbling to the floor. Water spilled from the bucket. Deirdre managed to keep her head from rapping too harshly against the tiles, but that was all.
Miriam landed on her and locked her long, piano-playing hands around Deirdre’s throat. Memories of the German soldier she’d stolen the knife from, the men who had . . . they all swam in her head, along with her rage at Deirdre’s bullying and Sister Margaret’s cruelty. Her hands tightened.
“Sweet Jesus, Annie, you’ll kill her!” Bridget frantically hauled her backward. That broke the spell. Deirdre lay limp, but wide-eyed and breathing. Bridget shoved Miriam aside and knelt beside the fair-haired girl.
Miriam’s knees shook. She would have killed Deirdre. What’s become of me? she thought in mingled shame and fear.
Deirdre coughed and tried to sit up. Bridget held her down. Miriam tensed again.
“Deirdre,” Bridget said coldly, “I didn’t stop Annie from wringing your fat neck because I like you. We’re in a house of godly nature, and blood oughtn’t to be shed here. But I swear, if you don’t leave Annie alone, the Sisters will know about the American you’ve been sneaking off to see. D’you understand?”
“He loves me!” Deirdre said raspily.
Bridget’s mouth turned down. “They’ll all say that. But if you say a word about this, or if you bother Annie again, you won’t be hearing more fancy words of love from your American. D’you understand?”
Deirdre’s face flushed. After a moment, she nodded.
“Your word as an O’Fain,” Bridget pressed.
Anger sparked in Deirdre’s hazel eyes. “My word as an O’Fain,” she finally snarled. Bridget released her. Deirdre got to her feet, touching her throat and looking at Miriam with fear and hatred. Then she turned and stalked down the corridor, wet dress clinging to her plump frame.
Miriam and Bridget faced each other across the water-splashed floor.
Bridget shook her head, smiling slightly. “Annie, you’re a corker. Your brothers must be a handful if you’re such a scrapper.”
Miriam blinked back sudden tears. “My brothers didn’t teach me to fight.” Oh, Jacob, oh, Isaac . . . where are you now? Be safe, please, she half pleaded, half prayed.
Bridget’s eyes—green as the emerald ring Miriam’s mother had sold to buy her passage—darkened with what took a moment for Miriam to recognize as sympathy. “The world taught you, then.” The questions behind the statement lay unspoken.
“The world’s teaching all of us,” Miriam said quietly.
“Ah, but Ireland’s neutral and they’ll keep it that way, no matter how many they have to arrest.” Bridget’s gaze stayed on Miriam’s. “And some, like Deirdre or Sister Margaret, would be more than happy to go bearing tales.”
Miriam nodded at the warning. Then she shivered.
“Ah, you’re soaking wet and I’m blathering. C’mon, let’s get this mopped up before lights-out.”
Bridget lay awake long after lights-out, thinking. She’d grown up brawling. A girl fighting didn’t surprise her. That cow Deirdre had it coming for a long time. From someone other than me.
But . . . when she had pulled Annie away, there’d been a killing rage in those dark eyes of hers. That Bridget hadn’t seen often.
Maire slipped into the room. Bridget turned her head. “Where have you been?” she whispered. Maire had warned her she’d be late and not to worry, but she couldn’t help it.
“In the library.” Maire sat carefully down on Bridget’s bed, trying not to make it squeak. “I found a book while I was cleaning. An old book.”
“Maire . . .”
“Listen. If we can find out where to go, I can get us there.”
“How?”
“Magic.”
Miriam listened silently. Maire’s arrival had awoken her from a light doze.
She knew there was no such thing as magic. But hiding in Ireland, she’d learned the Irish believed as fiercely in magic and mystery as she did in the Torah.
“And how are we going to find a place to go?” Bridget didn’t sound convinced.
“Bridey, I can’t think of everything. Can’t you help?”
“How am I going to find a place to go? I’ve never been outside the city!”
I have, Miriam thought. The convent felt less secure every day. If she was discovered, she’d be deported. Which meant her death. She’d tried to blend in, but she knew she was conspicuous. The growing suspicion in Sister Margaret’s eyes told her that. Deirdre watched Miriam closely now too. So did others. If Sister Margaret, or Deirdre, or someone else, guessed the truth . . .
“Annie has,” Maire whispered in a strange, toneless voice that sent shivers up Miriam’s spine. “And it’s farther she’ll go before the war’s over, ’cross the water to ’scape the death looking for her . . .”
Miriam sat up without thinking.
“Farther she’ll go, in the smoke and fire,” Maire continued, as if she hadn’t heard Miriam’s bed creak. “With kin not her own and naught but her wits, to fox the hunters and make a new den.”
Miriam drew the blanket tightly around her, chilled to the bone.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bridget whispered.
“What?” Maire’s voice sounded normal again.
Miriam heard scrabbling sounds; then candlelight bloomed. Bridget looked pallid, even in the dim light. “You never told me you had the Sight, Maire Riordan,” she whispered. Her voice shook.
“I . . . what happened?” Now Maire sounded frightened.
“What have you been playing at? And in a house of God?”
Maire drew hers
elf up. “I do not play,” she said with knife-edge precision. “My mother had the Sight, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, I’ll have you know, Bridget Riley. There are more things on this earth than the Church teaches.”
Bridget crossed herself.
Miriam sat watching, trying to reconcile everything she knew with what she’d just heard. All she knew of magic was folktales and faint whispers she’d heard about kabbalah lore— but she knew only that it wasn’t “proper,” as her father had said when Isaac had asked once.
“Annie,” Maire asked, “what did I say?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.” Maire tucked her knees up under her chin. “It’s not the way with me to remember.”
“You said . . . I had farther to go before the war’s over. Across the water. To escape a death looking for me.” That could be a guess. She is very smart.
“And?”
“You talked about smoke and fire. And . . .”
“ ‘With kin not her own,’ ” Bridget continued, “ ‘with naught but her wits, to fox the hunters and make a new den.’ ”
“Ah,” Maire said.
“Ah, what?” Miriam asked impatiently when Maire didn’t elaborate.
“Ah, as in . . . shh!” Maire blew out the candle and scrambled into her own bed.
Miriam lay down quickly, trying not to make the bed creak. She heard soft footsteps along the corridor. Her hand crept to the knife under her pillow.
The door opened a crack. Miriam feigned sleep, her senses stretched taut to catch every sound.
“Sleeping,” she heard Sister Fiona whisper.
“I smell smoke,” Sister Margaret whispered in return.
The candle, Miriam thought in alarm.
“I was poking up the fire before; it’s me you smell it on,” Sister Fiona whispered.
“Hmph.” The door eased shut again, but not before Miriam heard “Troublemakers, all three” from Sister Margaret.
If only you knew, she thought grimly.
Maire rubbed tired eyes. Every chance she’d had, she’d been poring over the musty tome she’d hidden in a corner of the library. She’d found it buried on a disused bookshelf. Something besides neatness had drawn her to dust that corner. When she saw the spine jutting out slightly from those of the other books, she had remembered her dream with a shiver of mingled excitement and fear—and pulled the book out, knowing she’d found what she sought.
Sister Fiona tolerated her reading so long as the library remained spotless. Maire felt a pang of guilt. The good Sister would be appalled at her reading. But . . . Needs must when the Sight drove.
She thought she could cast the spells—powerful ones, from the way they made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. The first was for protection, should they need it.
And now she knew where they were headed, so she could cast the second spell, the journey one. Bless Deirdre and her American. All it took was an armlock from Bridey and Deirdre repeated all his tales of New York City, and all the names of his family and friends, that lonely he was for them . . .
They. Bridget’s going with Maire had never been in question; Maire had come to love her like a sister, for all the younger girl’s gruffness.
Anne . . . Well, that had been a surprise. But the Sight had told Maire more than the other girls had realized, once they’d repeated her own words back to her.
“ ‘Kin not her own,’ ” she murmured. “ ‘Naught but her wits.’ ” She smiled slightly. “Describes all three of us, now doesn’t it?”
The night exploded. Maire screamed as the library walls shook.
“ ‘Smoke and fire,’ ” she breathed, eyes wide. Then she grabbed the book. And ran.
Pandemonium reigned. Girls streamed from their bedrooms, down the stairs, calling out in fright, praying, or weeping. “They’re bombing us!” Sister Margaret screamed, ruler forgotten beside her as she knelt in the middle of the center hall, habit askew, crying hysterically. “We’re neutral ! They’re not supposed to—”
Bridget—who’d been on punishment duty again, this time long after lights-out, and had just come from dumping her water out and admiring the full moon—stood stock-still as terrified girls careened into her.
She heard air-raid sirens. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, they’re using the full moon to bomb us by! Part of her wanted to drop to her knees with Sister Margaret. Part of her wanted to run. Somewhere. Anywhere.
“It’s her, that dirty Jewess new girl—” Sister Margaret gabbled.
You’ll not betray Annie! Bridget’s slap to Sister Margaret’s face, delivered with all the pent-up anger she had kept in check for so long, sent the nun sprawling. Sister Margaret scrabbled for the ruler, but Bridget got to it first. Other girls scattered, wide-eyed.
The third blow she slashed across Sister Margaret’s back and hands splintered the ruler. Grinning ferally, Bridget snapped it between her hands and flung it aside. Someone— Deirdre?—cheered. Before the dazed nun could recover, Bridget hauled her up and pinned her against the wall by the throat.
“It’s hysterical you are, Sister Margaret,” Bridget said loudly, staring into her hate-filled eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting a godly example for us? Not blathering on about fancies?”
“You little—that little—”
Bridget’s grip tightened. “There are no Jews here, Sister. We know that. You know that.” Only my friend. And I’ll fight you or anyone for her, you Nazi-sympathizing cow. “You’re daft.”
Sister Fiona stormed up the hallway, habit billowing, dark hair exposed. She cut across the crowd to pull Bridget’s arm away from Sister Margaret’s throat. The older nun slumped to the floor, coughing. “Go on with you!” Sister Fiona ordered.
“But—”
“I’ll deal with her.” Sister Fiona pressed a quick kiss to Bridget’s cheek. “God be with you, Bridget Riley, wherever you go, and take care of your friends!”
Bridget ran upstairs as dust shivered from the ceiling. The air-raid sirens howled frantically. Explosions resounded ever closer, ever closer . . .
Anne was in their room, throwing clothes into a satchel. Maire paced by the door.
“There you are,” Maire said. Her eyes were a more brilliant blue than Bridget had ever seen them. “I packed your bag.” Two satchels sat on Bridget’s bed.
“Done,” Anne said, turning to Maire. “What door do we use?”
Maire smiled serenely. “We’ll leave from here.”
She took Anne by the shoulders. “Your ways are not our ways,” she said, voice changing to the same strange whisper Bridget had heard before. “But it’s believe in this or die. Your God, my Goddess . . . both of them will understand. Do you understand, Miriam, daughter of Rachel, granddaughter of Susannah?”
Miriam froze, Maire’s hands cool and firm on her shoulders. The people arranging her escape had given a second false name to the nuns. No one in Ireland knew her or her mother’s name, let alone her grandmother’s. Her grandmother had died when Miriam was five. There was no logical way Maire could have found those names out.
That left . . .
Miriam swallowed hard. Screams sounded downstairs and outside. The blackout curtains rippled as impacts struck closer and closer. Window glass shattered on the floor.
She prayed for guidance, staring into Maire’s fathomless night-blue eyes.
And smelled her mother’s perfume.
She brought her hands up to cover the other girl’s. “What do I do?”
Maire drew the other two girls close. “Hold hands. Put the satchels over your shoulders. They may not come with us. Anything you really need, leave in your dress pockets.”
“Already did,” Anne—Maire continued to partly think of her as Anne, though the Sight had told her the girl’s true name—said tautly.
“You didn’t need to tell me,” Bridget quipped, trying to smile. “My brothers kept everything in their pockets. Made laundry terrible.”
Maire took An
ne’s cold and trembling hand. “Macushla,” she said gently to the dark-eyed girl, “it’ll all be well, you’ll see.” Then she took Bridget’s warm, reassuringly solid hand.
Brigid, hear me now. Miriam must escape the death waiting for her. She needs Your help. But . . . please, if You will, let us go with her. She needs us. Her family is gone.
In the same moment the Sight had shown Maire Anne’s true name, it had shown the terrible details of what had happened to her family. Maire took a deep breath and cleared her mind.
Then she began to chant the words she had memorized. The room darkened with smoke—from outside, or from within? The words came strong and true, in a voice she recognized as her mother’s more than her own.
First, to shield this place. I owe the nuns that. They took me in. And the other girls deserve protection. Even Deirdre.
Brigid, bless this place. Keep it safe. Even Sister Margaret— her Sisters will deal with her.
The explosions marched closer. Maire chanted harder, sweat beading on her brow, fiercely envisioning an impenetrable shield of air inverted over the building. Brigid, hear me now. Keep this place and its inhabitants safe from harm. I ask this in my name, in my mother Nuala’s name, and in her mother Sorcha’s name.
The building stopped shaking.
“Praise be to God!” Sister Maureen called from the corridor, voice high with wonder. “The bombs are missing us! God’s hand is shielding us!”
Maire smiled. Blessed be Brigid’s grace.
Now to carry us away.
New York City. She let the image grow in her mind as the American had described it to Deirdre: Pennsylvania Station, where the trains came in . . . Greenwich Village, where he’d been born and raised, with its crooked twisting streets and houses jammed so closely together they looked like gossips huddling . . .
Something popped. A bluish glow filled the room. Anne’s and Bridget’s hands tightened around hers.
The girls vanished . . .
. . . to reappear, dazed and with satchels missing, in a shadowy corner of what Maire, blinking frantically, recognized, she thought, as . . . Pennsylvania Station. People hurried to and fro. Just as in my dream.
Bridget’s mouth hung open. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, and let go of Maire’s hand long enough to cross herself. Then she took it again, as if afraid to be without contact.
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