Chapter 10 Catherine
Catherine
It was the light that woke me. Day filtered through the cottage window in thin gold lines, pooling on the floorboards like coins from a lost kingdom.
The hearth was ash-cold, the air in the house heavy with old sweat and newer smoke, and the weight of a man’s arm across my ribcage.
I lay there a minute, breathing in the scent of him.
Real, not a ghost, not some cruel echo, but Sully himself, who had come back to me with a jaw bruised purple and a hunger in his hands.
I’d half expected him to disappear in the night, vanish in the way men vanish, leaving a memory and a mess.
But his snore—a lazy, huffing thing—kept me moored in the now.
I watched him for a while, the way his brow furrowed even in sleep, like he was wrestling bad spirits in his dreams. I wanted to smooth it, but I didn’t.
Instead, I crept from under his arm and stood barefoot in the sunbeam, letting the chill bite my legs.
The skin on my thighs was marked from his grip, and when I ran a finger over the bruise, I felt a wicked kind of pride.
I pulled on my dress, the one he’d torn at the hem in his haste, and cinched it with a scrap of blue ribbon.
My hands still shook, though I told myself it was just the cold.
At the hearth, I nudged last night’s embers to life, stoked it with dry moss and half a peat brick.
The room brightened, and with the brightness came the ache in my belly—hunger, shame, longing, all gnawing together like a litter of wolf pups.
He woke with a start, coughing. “Christ alive, what time is it?”
I checked the angle of the light. “Not yet seven,” I said. “You want bread or porridge?”
He squinted at me, then at the fire, as if he’d landed here by accident.
“Both?” He ran a hand through his hair, which stood up like a thicket after a storm.
He was so out of place—his shirt was foreign, the ink on his skin still strange to me, but the way he moved was pure Sully: careful, hungry, stubborn.
I put water on for the oats, and sliced the end of a loaf. He watched every move, eyes on my hands, my back, the little strip of skin at my neck. The way he stared should’ve made me self-conscious, but it only fed the low flame inside.
I caught him grinning. “What?”
He shook his head. “You’re the same, Cat.”
I grunted, but my cheeks burned. “You’re a liar.”
“Never to you,” he said, and he meant it.
We ate in silence, bowls balanced on our knees, steam curling up to frost our faces. It was almost peaceful. Almost.
A hard knock rattled the door. We both froze.
He set down his bowl, careful as you’d handle a loaded pistol.
I stood, smoothing my hair, and went to the door.
It swung open before I touched it. In blew my father, Angus, big-shouldered and red-faced from the walk.
He stomped the mud from his boots, shaking the floor.
My mother, Mrs. Byrne, followed, wrapped in her shawl, already peering past me into the room.
She saw Sully first. Her hands went to her face. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” she gasped, then made the sign of the cross.
Angus just gripped the doorframe, staring like he’d seen an abomination. His knuckles were white. “Catherine,” he said, voice flat, “what’s that doing here?”
The “that” was Sully, looking like a bandit or worse. He wiped his mouth and stood, head down, but not cowed. Not Sully. He squared his shoulders, but kept his distance.
I set my jaw. “He’s not a ghost, Da. He’s alive.”
Angus didn’t move. “I helped bury you,” he said, low. “We all did.”
Sully nodded. “I know. I’m sorry for that.”
Angus’s hand trembled on the wood. “What trick is this?”
I stepped between them, blocking the room with my body. “No trick. He came back last night. He’s…changed, but it’s him.”
Mother pushed past and circled Sully, crossing herself with every step. She pinched his arm, hard, then let go with a yelp. “He’s warm!”
Sully managed a weak smile. “Would you like to sit?” He offered her his own seat by the fire.
She sat, but kept her hands pressed to her chest like a shield. “We grieved you, Sully,” she whispered. “We mourned.”
He nodded. “I know.”
Angus stepped inside, shutting the door. He kept one hand on the latch, as if to bar Sully in or out at a second’s notice. “You look wrong,” he said, eyes scanning the jacket, the boots, the patched jeans. “You sound wrong, too.”
Sully met his gaze, but said nothing.
I set out three mugs, poured the last of the beer for my father, and tea for the rest. The air was too thick to breathe. I watched Angus study Sully, looking for cracks.
“Where’ve you been?” Angus barked. “None saw you in the village. The priest said you had gone to God.”
Sully licked his lips. “I don’t know where I was,” he said. “Woke up far away. No memory of the place, but I… I knew I had to come here.”
Mother made a wounded sound, soft as a baby bird.
I nodded. “It’s true, Da. He just came to the door, half-dead with cold. No money, no weapon. Just himself.”
Angus stared at me, then Suly. “It’s not natural,” he said, voice hoarse. “Men don’t walk out of their own graves.”
Sully looked down, twisting the shamrock at his wrist. “I know. I don’t have answers for you.”
Mother reached out, touched Toolie’s hand, pulled back, then touched again, this time keeping her palm flat. “You’re alive,” she murmured. “But how?”
He shook his head, lost. “I only remember Catherine.”
Angus snorted, but it sounded like he was trying not to cry. “Of course. Fool for love, the both of you.”
I put my hand on Sully’s shoulder. “He’s here now. That’s all that matters.”
Angus drained his mug in one go, wiped his mouth, and glared at me. “You’ll have to tell the priest,” he said. “And the O’Connors, and the rest of the world. They’ll say you’re cursed.”
I shrugged. “Let them. I have Catherine back, so the world is good.”
He turned back to Sully, voice dropping. “You plan to marry her this time, or just haunt her from the shadows?”
Sully met his gaze, steady. “If she’ll have me, I’d never leave her again.”
Angus set his jaw, then spat on the floor. “Fine. You’ll stay, but you’ll work. And you’ll keep out of sight till we can decide what to do with you.”
Mother nodded, eyes still on Sully’s hand. “We’ll make a pallet by the fire, like old times.”
Sully looked at me, a question in his eyes. I gave a little nod. He gripped my hand under the table, out of sight of the others.
Angus stood, grabbed his coat, and opened the door. “I’ve got fields to see to. No more trouble today, Catherine.”
He left without a word to Sully. Mother hovered a minute, then laid her hand on Sully’s cheek, just once, before following.
The door shut. The house was silent again, but the air was thinner, like a pressure had been lifted.
Sully let out a long, slow breath. “That could’ve gone worse.”
I laughed, short and sharp. “You’re not from here if you think that’s ‘not bad.’ Da will have the whole parish here by sunset.”
He grinned, relief in it. “I missed this.”
I wiped at my eyes. “Me too.”
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine. “I meant what I said.”
I nodded. “Me too. Now help me with the washing, or you’ll have Mother on us both.”
He stood, rolled his sleeves, and followed me out to the yard. We did the chores in silence, side by side, the way we used to, and the world felt, for a moment, almost possible again.
***
The table was set for four, though my mother kept glancing at the door as if expecting another guest. She’d spread the cloth, scrubbed and patched a dozen times, and set out the chipped bowls, the battered spoons.
The only luxury was the last of the black bread and a crock of honey, which she placed in the center like an offering.
Angus sat at the head, shoulders squared, every line of his body daring Sully to sit across from him.
I settled at Sully’s side, my knee brushing his under the table, a claim I wasn’t sure I had the right to make but did anyway.
Da didn’t miss it; the muscle in his cheek ticked like a deathwatch beetle.
We ate in silence, the only sound the scrape of spoons on wood and the wind rattling the shutters. Every few seconds, Angus would clear his throat, a reminder that the peace was an illusion.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did you get those clothes?” The words hung in the air like a bad smell.
Sully looked down at his jeans, the fraying at the cuff, the faded t-shirt clinging to his ribs. “They’re from the time I returned from,” he said.
“They’re not Irish-made. Not even English. And that mark—” He jabbed his finger at the patch on Sully’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Sully touched the patch, the skull and crossbones, fingers tracing the shape like he was remembering something soft. “Just a symbol,” he said. “From… another life.”
Angus grunted. “It’s devil’s work, is what it is.” He turned to me. “And you, letting him sleep under your roof? Do you want to curse the rest of us?”
I bristled. “It’s no curse, Da. He’s come back for me.”
Mother tried to smooth things, as always. “It’s a blessing to have Sully home again. Maybe God sent him back to heal—”
“He looks like he’s seen the devil,” Da snapped, then turned on Sully. “And you—no one saw you taken from the grave.”
Sully stared at his hands, the ink on his forearm stark against the pale skin. “I don’t remember much,” he said. “Only waking up in a strange place. All I wanted was to get home.”
“A place where they dress men like whores and paint their skin with ink?” Da was almost shouting now. “Do you take us for fools?”
“Enough, Angus,” my mother said, voice shaking.
“There’s only us here, Mam,” I said, but the silence after made me feel as small as one.
Da’s eyes pinned me. “You’ve sisters, Catherine. Don’t forget your place. Or theirs.”
I set my spoon down, the clatter loud in the stillness. “I haven’t forgotten. But I’m not a child, and I won’t be told what to feel.”