Epilogue
Irish
Six months later, the farmhouse still wasn't finished, which Skye claimed was proof I had finally developed realistic expectations and I considered proof that interior designers enjoyed creating unnecessary work simply so they could continue sending invoices.
The kitchen had survived mostly intact, as promised.
The old table remained exactly where it had stood when Da covered it with restoration paperwork and Mam complained about gravy landing on invoices, though Skye had persuaded me to restore the scarred surface rather than replace it.
New lighting had been installed above the work areas, the electrical system had been brought into the current century, and the plumbing no longer made sounds that caused visiting Americans to look nervously toward the walls.
The sitting room floor had been repaired board by board instead of torn out, the old fireplace worked properly again, and the windows had been restored rather than replaced despite three contractors insisting modern units would have been easier.
Maeve's bedroom was halfway through becoming the library we'd talked about, with shelving along two walls and her surviving books already mixed among newer ones Skye had chosen with enough care that even Brigid had approved.
Finn's room had become a guest room, though somebody had left an old map of America framed above the desk because Skye said a boy who spent half his childhood planning journeys deserved to keep traveling somehow.
The upstairs bathroom was gone. I had lost that argument decisively.
I was still bitter about it. Skye maintained that bitterness didn't qualify as a design objection.
The rest of the house existed somewhere between restoration project and home, which meant one hallway had finished plaster while another contained paint samples taped across the wall, tools lived in places where tools absolutely did not belong, and nobody had managed to agree whether the upstairs landing needed another light fixture.
I complained about all of it regularly while secretly loving every sign that the farmhouse was no longer being preserved for the dead.
Today, it was louder than I remembered it ever being.
I stood at the kitchen sink looking through the window toward the back garden while voices carried through nearly every room.
Eamon was outside arguing with Steel about the proper way to repair a low stone wall despite both men being equally certain the other had misunderstood masonry.
Niamh and Sunshine had taken over one end of the kitchen table with food, bottles, napkins, and enough containers to feed most of County Clare.
Orla, now just over a year old and considerably more mobile than I considered reasonable, had discovered that Charlie would follow her anywhere if the destination involved something adults had specifically forbidden.
Remedy had already retrieved both children from beneath the table twice.
Brigid had appointed herself authority over dinner despite Skye repeatedly reminding her that this gathering had not technically been assigned a commander.
Toxic had wisely gone outside, while Raze had stayed behind and made the mistake of asking Brigid whether Irish whiskey made people argumentative or whether that was simply a regional personality trait.
He was currently washing vegetables under supervision.
Storm considered this the funniest thing she had seen all year.
"You look smug."
Skye's voice came from behind me. I turned.
She stood in the kitchen doorway wearing jeans, boots, and one of my old shirts with the sleeves rolled to her elbows because apparently owning half a wardrobe across three countries had not stopped her from stealing mine.
Her hair had been pulled into a loose knot while she worked upstairs earlier, though enough strands had escaped around her face to suggest the arrangement had lost whatever battle she'd expected it to fight.
There was a faint streak of plaster dust along one forearm. I looked toward Raze.
"I am." He turned from the sink.
"I can hear you."
"Good." Brigid pointed at the carrots.
"Less talking." Raze stared at her. Storm nearly fell against the counter laughing. Skye came to stand beside me.
"You realize he's going to retaliate."
"He lacks imagination."
"I heard that too."
"Still good."
She smiled and slipped her hand into mine.
Six months ago, the contact still had enough novelty that part of me noticed every time it happened.
Now it was simply something we did. A hand at my back when we passed in a hallway.
Fingers linked beneath a restaurant table.
Her knee against mine on long flights. My palm resting on her thigh while she drove because Skye had eventually discovered I disliked being a passenger and therefore insisted on driving whenever she wanted to irritate me.
We had accumulated habits across countries.
That had been the part nobody could plan.
The schedule had looked ridiculous when Cipher finally built it, just as I'd predicted.
Carolina for stretches around club work and Harbor House projects.
Edinburgh whenever Thistle it worked, which mattered more.
Skye leaned against the counter beside me and looked through the window.
"Steel is losing."
"He's American."
"That seems unfair."
"Eamon has thirty years of Irish stone walls behind him."
"Steel has Mace." Outside, Mace had joined the argument while Trigger stood several feet away drinking coffee and making absolutely no attempt to help. I considered it.
"Fair."
Skye rested her head briefly against my shoulder.
The sight outside should have felt impossible.
Flaming Skulls spread across the garden of the O'Brien farmhouse.
Eamon laughing beside men who had known me only as Irish.
Niamh inside with women who knew the version of me that existed after her.
Brigid insulting Raze while Sunshine quietly fed him pieces of bread because she apparently took pity on even the undeserving.
The two halves of my life were no longer halves.
They had become one increasingly complicated whole.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Cipher. Skye felt it.
"Work?"
"Probably."
"You going to answer?" I looked at the kitchen. At Brigid. At Raze, who had somehow started peeling carrots incorrectly enough to become a public event.
"Maybe not." Her eyebrows lifted.
"Who are you and what have you done with Irish?"
"He's busy."
"Doing?" I pulled her closer.
"This." She smiled. Then my phone vibrated again. I sighed. Skye laughed.
"Answer it."
"Traitor." I checked the message. Vale sighting unconfirmed. Harrow network movement through Prague. Nothing immediate. Enjoy dinner. That final sentence told me Toxic had gotten to him. I typed back. Tomorrow. Then put the phone away. Skye watched.
"What?"
"Nothing tonight."
Her expression softened. That was how the war looked now.
The fight wasn't finished and probably never would be neatly finished.
Croft remained in custody in Britain, buried beneath charges that had expanded as more survivors chose to speak.
Harrow was still out there, though Covenant Renewal had lost properties, money, senior staff, and enough hidden infrastructure that the organization no longer moved with the confidence it once had.
Vale appeared and vanished through shell companies and false vehicles often enough to keep Cipher irritated, which was almost worth the inconvenience.
Trigger's operation against the remaining East Coast network was growing, and everyone knew the hardest part of the fight with the Order was still ahead.
Ledger's life had changed too. Hope was alive, something confirmed three months after the Saint Brigid's server recovery, though contact had happened slowly and through people who understood that finding family didn't create obligation.
Ledger had written a letter instead of appearing at her door.
Hope had answered two weeks later. They had spoken by phone after that.
Nobody rushed the rest. Even Raze understood not to make jokes about it. Usually.
Across the sitting room, Hawkeye stood near the fireplace listening while Isla spoke with Eamon about the American branch's first completed transitional-housing project.
She had come to Carolina for three months as planned.
Then extended another month. Then went back to Edinburgh for six weeks because she wanted to.
Now she had flown to Ireland with Skye for the farmhouse gathering and spent the afternoon working at the library table before joining everyone else without needing anyone to comment on what that meant.
Hawkeye had never followed her around, yet he had somehow always been nearby when she needed another pair of hands.
I noticed. Skye definitely noticed. Neither of us said anything.
Some things needed room. That lesson had apparently become contagious.
Isla looked toward Hawkeye while saying something I couldn't hear.
He answered quietly, and she smiled. Skye followed my gaze.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking loudly." I looked at her.
"That's my line."
"Shared property."
"Thought you objected to ownership."