Chapter 4
It is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him.
Sometime in the last two hours, the landscape had shifted from excellent farming country to a barren gray.
Patches of grass appeared here and there, but the fields were all rock and shale, with strange boulders precariously perched on narrow peaks—how they didn’t fall and roll was beyond me.
The land was good for livestock, Lady Catherine had said.
But by God, the seanchaithe had been right.
This land was fit for naught but surefooted goats.
Brows furrowed, I shifted on the bench.
I’d learned why Cormac had offered extra cushions. With naught but bone to chafe against skin, I’d begun to feel the ache of every mile long before the sun went down.
It was full dark now and had been for some time, but the moon shone full and bright against a backdrop of obsidian pitch, the stars a smattering of glittering white as chaotic and beautiful as a brush-spattered painting.
Silhouetted against the moon, wind-bent trees grew short and narrow, their branches forced to grow backward as if reaching away from the strong gusts that battered the coast. This was the Burren.
For miles, we traveled without sight of a candle or fire, despite passing plenty of houses along the way, doors flung open.
Abandoned. Everything was silent. Still.
As if we were completely alone in the world, a carriage without purpose, a dark stain against a gray landscape, intruders rattling in the night.
Lady Catherine was asleep once more, but I hadn’t been able to settle since meeting the march outside Ennistymon.
I scowled. Surely I should’ve felt something beyond fear the wraiths might slow the journey.
God above, if Da could see me now, he’d say I was well and truly lost. Had he not fought every day to keep moving?
Had he not done his best to stay alive so we might have the fortitude to go on?
But none of that strength was forgotten.
That’s why I sat in this carriage, because to live was to win.
This was my rebellion, and my promise to my brother, Michael. I would survive.
Compassion and guilt could come later, when those who survived rebuilt the country. When we came back from the brink of extinction one more time. Oh yes. Father had often told tales of old Cromwell, God rot him.
I stared out the window. Even the walls dividing acreage were different here.
At home, rounded rocks fitted together like puzzle pieces, with grass and vines growing within and without each crevice until the walls burst with life.
Here, long jagged slabs interlocked horizontally and vertically, an intimidating portcullis sprouting from the ground.
A low-lying fog crept from the shore, its tendrils curling around each hoof as the horses hauled us onward.
To our left, the land fell away, sloping downward toward the crashing waves of an angry sea.
And in the distance to our right, great shadowed mountains warned that the world I once knew was now far behind.
Let the past stay there, then. I had work to do.
I placed my temple against the cool window and looked as far ahead as I could manage.
How could a place so barren hold any sliver of maybe?
A place where only the forgotten would wander in hopes of being found.
But I didn’t want to be found. Because, I supposed, part of me didn’t believe I deserved to be.
Squinting into the night, I straightened.
A dim glow in the near distance spelled people, and sure enough, a dark shape appeared.
An occupied house, for sure. At last, signs of life.
Light spilled through the cracks of the door and shutters, promising the heat of a roaring fire within, and as we passed it, my heart skipped a beat.
People. Family. Life. We passed another, and another, then rolled into what must have been the center of a village.
A modest spire reached toward the stars, and the road opened into a market area.
We continued uphill. More houses. As we turned a corner, the waist-high rock walls gave way to the kind of imposing stonework I recognized.
These were the walls of an estate, cut stone with mortar, built so high none could see over the top.
It was the same kind of wall that surrounded Kilrush House, the Moore-Vandeleur’s estate.
This must be Browne House.
“My Lady?” I called, but Lady Catherine didn’t stir.
Cormac turned the carriage to the right—the walls curved inward—and slowed the team to a trot as we drove beneath a stone archway. There was no gate. I frowned. Odd, that.
We rumbled up a short drive, a few lone trees standing sentry amid wild lawns. No team of gardeners then. This was a far cry from the manicured field of green that carpeted the Moore-Vandeleur’s drive.
But all thought of the sprawling style of the Moore-Vandeleur estate fell away as I caught my first glimpse of Browne House. It was a strange monstrosity—five stories high and narrow from the front, with long-fingered vines of ivy slowly strangling its facade, brick by brick.
It seemed alive somehow, its semicircular windows on the top floor serving as brows above large, rectangular eyes. A wide stone staircase swept from ground to entrance—a tongue rolled out in welcome to the hungry, double-doored maw on the first floor. Ready. Waiting to devour me whole.
Dread coiled deep in my gut as the carriage rolled to a jolting halt, and with the final rock of wheels fully spent, Lady Catherine’s eyes opened.
“Home at last,” she murmured, stifling a yawn with one hand as she reached for her top hat with the other. “Are you hungry? The house is surely asleep, but we could manage bread and cheese.”
Hungry? Wasn’t I always hungry? But not now.
Not as I faced the reality of what I’d done—abandoned the memory of what had passed for an unwritten future that could well destroy me.
It would’ve been more honorable to die as the others had.
At least I’d been there to hold their hands at the last, but who was left to hold mine?
I shook my head. Whatever lay ahead was atonement for the unholy bargain struck on the backs of those gone forever to ensure my survival.
My gaze slowly shifted from the house beyond the window to Lady Catherine’s sleep-hazed eyes and lifted my chin.
“Thank you, My Lady. But I think I’d prefer to rest.”
“And rest you shall.” Lady Catherine smiled. “Cormac can show you to your room, and we can reconvene when you rise.”
The unknown might terrify me. But I’d faced it before … and there were worse things than death.