Chapter 11 Catherine #2
I looked at Sully. “Go to the root cellar, right side. Clean cloth and the green bottle.” He didn’t need to be told twice.
I slit the cassock with a paring knife, rolled back the wool and linen. The wound was ugly, a chunk gouged out just above the knee. Not deep, but it bled like a stuck pig. I bit my tongue and pressed the cloth to the hole.
Father Declan hissed. “You always did have a rough touch, Catherine.”
I grinned. “You always did bleed easy.”
He glanced at my hands, the blood on my apron, then at Sully, who hovered with the green bottle. “Rub it in,” I told Sully, and he did, steady as a surgeon, even when the priest bit down on his own fist to keep from crying out.
When the blood slowed, I packed the wound with mashed comfrey and bound it tight with linen.
All the while, Declan stared at Sully—really stared, the way only a priest or a butcher can, trying to see what’s inside. When I finished tying the knot, Declan asked, “Where’s the rest of you, O’Toole?”
Sully hesitated. “Rest of me?”
Declan made a soft, humorless noise. “You were never a liar, son. Not even as a boy. But you’re not the man I buried, either. You look older. Harder. And your clothes… where did you get those?”
I waited, heart slamming around in my chest.
Sully set the bottle down, slow. “It’s a long story, Father.”
Declan’s smile flickered, a ghost. “Try me.”
Sully looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded. If we couldn’t trust the priest, we were truly alone.
Sully flexed his hand, watched the way the firelight lit the green tattoo. “I don’t belong here,” he said, flat and simple. “Not in this time. I came from far off. And when I woke, all I wanted was to see her again.” He nodded at me.
Declan listened, face stone. “I’ve heard tales,” he said after a minute. “Of men lost in bogs, found decades later, unchanged. Of women who vanished and returned old and wise. The world is thick with ghosts, O’Toole. But you’re no ghost, are you?”
Sully shook his head. “No, Father.”
Declan let out a long breath. “Then we won’t treat you like one.
” He tried to cross himself, but his hand shook too badly, so he just bowed his head.
“The English will be here soon. They’re not just looking for rebels.
They’re looking for magic. Witches, changelings. Anything they can blame for the war.”
I glanced at Sully, fear rising in my throat. “What do we do?”
Declan’s eyes gleamed. “You run. As fast and as far as you can. Tonight, if you’re able. And don’t stop for anyone, not even God himself.”
He caught Sully’s hand, held it in a grip that belied his frailty. “Take care of her,” he said. “I mean it.”
Sully nodded. “I promise.”
Declan slumped in the chair, the fight going out of him. “Hide me in the hay loft, Catherine. If they come, let them see you grieving over my dead body. Lie if you must. God will forgive both of you.”
I fetched another blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “You’ll bleed out if you don’t keep still, Father.”
He gave me a look, half-amusement, half-awe. “You always were stubborn.”
I shrugged. “And you always were a fool for showing up at the worst time.”
He grinned, teeth bloody. “It’s what priests do.”
Sully shifted his weight, wincing at the stab of his own wound. “What about the rest?” he asked. “My friends—Moab, Scarlette, and Mama Celeste. They’re in the castle dungeons.”
Declan’s face closed up. “Hale has waited two days past. He won’t wait any longer. They hang the rebels at dawn,” he said. “If you want to save them, you’ll have to move before then.”
Sully’s jaw tightened. “Then we don’t have a choice.”
I felt the world tilt under me, the old terror returning. But I looked at Sully, saw the resolve in his face, and knew I’d follow him. To hell or to the castle, it made no difference.
Declan drank a slug of whiskey, coughed, and leaned back. “If you’re really from another world, O’Toole, I hope you know how to break a man out of prison.”
Sully just smiled. “I do.”
I cleaned the blood from my hands, then touched the leather ring on my finger, the knot already darkened from use. I caught Sully watching, and he smiled, tired but true.
In the hush that followed, I heard a raven caw in the yard. The wind rattled the door. The world outside was waiting to eat us alive.
We didn’t waste time. As soon as Father Declan could stand, he hobbled to the hearth and started pawing through my mother’s basket of kindling, searching for something. When he pulled out a fat, greasy stub of old charcoal, his face lit up in a way that made him look about twenty years younger.
“Clear the table,” he barked, and Sully swept the crusts and cups to the floor. I half expected my mother’s ghost to rise up and slap him, but nothing happened. The world was holding its breath.
Declan pulled a crumpled page from inside his cloak—a prayer, a curse, or just the dregs of some old letter. He smoothed it flat with his bloody palm, set his thumb to the edge, and started to draw.
He sketched fast, hard. Lines like black stitches.
“This is Kilkenny Castle,” he said, voice low, “where they keep the worst of the rebels and the best of the beer.” He grinned at his own joke, then drew a set of blocks at the bottom.
“This is the dungeon. There’s a river behind it, and in the old days, there was a mill.
The tunnel starts here.” He stabbed at the page, leaving a smudge.
Sully leaned in, his nose almost touching the ink. “How do you know this?”
Declan didn’t look up. “Used to run with the wrong crowd. Old priests and old rebels always end up in the same tunnels, just for different reasons.”
I watched his hands. They shook, but the lines were true. He marked the entrance, the route, and the exits. “Most of the guards are lazy. They’d rather drink than patrol. The only danger is the changing of the shifts.” He glanced at Sully. “You’ll need to time it right.”
Sully nodded. “We can do that.”
Declan added a few more notes—sigils, shortcuts, and an X where the wall was thin enough to break. “If you can get your friends out, the river will cover your tracks. There’s a boat under the old bridge. I hid it there for a day like this.”
He pushed the map to Sully, then sat back, exhausted. “Don’t lose it,” he said. “It’s the only one.”
Sully folded the page, tucked it into his jacket, and clasped Declan’s hand. For a second, I thought the two men might cry. Instead, they just stared at each other, the kind of look you only get from sharing too many sins in too short a time.
Declan turned to me. “You should go with them, Catherine. The English want you almost as bad as they want O’Toole. You’re a symbol now, even if you never asked for it.”
I bristled. “I’m nobody’s symbol.”
He smiled, sad. “Sometimes you don’t get to choose.”
I grabbed my shawl and filled a jar with water from the bucket. “Is there anything else?” I asked, trying to sound braver than I felt.
“Just this,” Declan said, his voice dropping. He gestured to Sully, and I knew he wanted to talk without me. I didn’t like it, but I left them to it, stepping out to the yard, to the cold and the crow-calls and the ache of parting.
The sky was turning, morning eating away the dark. I scooped a handful of the old well water and splashed it on my face. The cold was a slap. It helped. I listened to the murmur of voices inside, too soft to catch, but I recognized the tone—a confession, an absolution, maybe even a last wish.
When I went back in, Sully stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. Declan slumped in the chair, gray and spent. They both looked at me like I was the last good thing in the world.
I tried to lighten the mood. “If you’re finished saving souls, Father, I’d like to steal your best coat.” I held up the old brown cloak from the peg by the door. “You won’t need it for sneaking.”
Declan laughed, a bark that ended in a cough. “Take it, girl. May it keep the devil off your back.”
Sully smiled, just a flash, but I saw the way his jaw set when he looked at me. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I took the map from him, held it in my hand, and pressed my thumb to the black X. “We’ll get them out,” I promised. “All of them.”
Declan leaned on the table, his hand trembling as he lifted the glass. “God go with you both.”
Sully bent down, took the old man’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he said.
Declan squeezed back. “Take care, O’Toole. If you get her killed, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days.”
Sully’s face softened, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “I’d expect nothing less.”
I reached for my bag—the one my mother had sewn for the harvest, lined with scraps from all the dresses she’d ever worn. Sully came up behind me, close enough that his breath tickled my ear.
“Wait,” he said.
He took out his knife—a short, ugly thing, blade notched from use. Without a word, he cut a lock of his own hair, then handed me the knife. “Your turn,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I hesitated, then cut a strand from behind my ear. He took both, twisted them together, and tied them with the same leather that matched my ring. He made a braid, small and tight, then pressed it into my palm.
“A piece of us both,” he said. “If we get separated.”
I clutched it hard, feeling the prickle of the hair, the firmness of the leather. “We won’t be.”
He smiled, but I saw the truth in his eyes.
Declan watched, silent. He didn’t bless us, didn’t pray. Just nodded, and I think that meant more.
Sully slipped the knife back into his boot. “Ready?”
We left the priest by the fire, wrapped in his own blood and hope. The sky outside had gone full morning. The world was waiting, knives out.