Copyright ©2001, Tracey Harnack. All rights reserved.  No part of this story may be re-posted in part or in full without written permission from me. It's characters are used without permission, no infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: Gene Roddenberry's Earth: Final Conflict is copyright 2001, Tribune Entertainment Co.
Rating: PG.
Title: The Steep and Thorny Way to Heaven, part 1

Author: Tracy Harnack

Description:
Description: The life story of Siobhan Beckett. Her early life and experiences that bring her to the point
of joining the militia.

The Steep and Thorny Way to Heaven, part 1

Rose O’Dell Beckett’s scream knifed through the still night air of the small cottage outside the tiny village of Neagh Moor, in Northern Ireland. Instantly, the lights in every window flicked on and the house burst forth in a frenzy of alarm.

“Rose, darling, is it time?” Seamus Beckett asked his wife in concern.

The slight woman nodded wordlessly, clumsily getting out of bed and throwing on her robe.

“No, stay here,” the lanky man said, hovering over her nervously.

“Seamus, I know what I am doin’,” she admonished. “ ‘Tis stifling up here. I need t’ be where I can get a breeze on me face.”

She waddled into the hallway, one hand clutching her heavy belly. The children were already up, and she shouted orders as she made her way down the creaky staircase. “Dylan, run and fetch Neasa. Take the lamp, and mind how ye go, but be quick about it!” As the already-tall six-year-old sprang to obey, she turned to her daughter. “Muirinn, put some blankets on th’ couch and then try t’ keep the little one occupied.”

Muirinn did as she was told, spreading out blankets and pillows as well as she could, while trying to keep the toddler, Fionn in check.

Breathing quickly, Rose sank heavily down on the makeshift bed the four-year-old girl had prepared and began to quite calmly count the time between contractions. “Won’t be long now, wee one,” she whispered.

In a remarkably short amount of time, Dylan burst in through the front door, carrying an antiquated oil lantern and all but dragging a tall, pale woman, with dark hair well past her waist.

The midwife hurriedly unwrapped her shawl and shoved it into Dylan’s waiting hands. She crossed the room to her charge, her every move sure after years of practice.

Neasa lived alone in the woods, away from everyone else. Very few people associated with her, but for those stubborn enough to insist upon having their babies at home, there was no finer midwife available. It didn’t matter if you shunned her every day; if you were in labor, you called Neasa.

Seamus tenderly wiped the sweat from Rose’s face, while holding her hand tightly. She was right; it was stifling, and little better downstairs. The night was unusually hot for the north of Ireland, even in high summer, and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. It was humid and even with all the windows open there was no relief.

Seamus muttered assurances in his wife’s ear, but she knew they were more for his benefit than hers. She might as well have been fixing dinner, for all the anxiety she showed. The labor lasted only twenty more minutes, until finally, with the three children looking on wide-eyed from the hearth, Rose gave one last push and then sank back against the pillows, exhausted. The cry of the newborn rang out into the world for the first time.

Neasa hit the infant on the back to clear the lungs and motioned for Dylan to hand her the shawl. It was a beautifully soft piece of blue cloth, embroidered with blessing-runes in silver. She wrapped the baby in it and pronounced, “It is a girl-child.”

The mysterious woman only spoke after a delivery, just before she handed the baby to the parents. No one had ever heard her utter a word at any other time.

“This child has been born on the last hour of Midsummer’s Eve, in to a world of great pain and loss. She will do things both great and terrible, but her heart will be pure and her motives good. She will bring to the world a new hope, and touch the lives of many.”

With that, Neasa fell silent and handed the infant to her waiting mother. Rose shivered at the prophecy, but her mind did not stay on the woman’s words for long. Everything else melted away in the face of her new baby daughter.

Vivid green eyes like emeralds sparkled up at her mother from a face that, while chubby as any babe’s, was elfin. A thin down of red hair covered her skull. It was the eyes that were unusual, for most infants were born with blue eyes that changed color as they aged.

“Hello, wee one,” Rose said. “I’ll name ye Siobhan. God’s grace.” She smiled and motioned to her other kids. “Come meet your new sister, m’ loves.”

She bared a breast and her new daughter began to suckle. Neasa started to slip out, as she always did. Before she stepped through the door, Rose called after her, “Neasa, your shawl!”

The midwife’s shawl had been made by her mother, fifty years prior. She wore it to every birthing, claiming it was enchanted and would protect the babies she delivered. So far, she had never delivered a stillbirth.

Neasa turned back with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “It is for Siobhan. And the one who will come after her.” With that, she slipped out into the night and was gone without a sound. A cooling breeze came out of nowhere and swept through the house, making Seamus and the children sigh with relief. Rose only wrapped Siobhan more tightly in the silken shawl and drew her infant child even closer.

Rose Beckett stood over her youngest child’s cradle in the waning afternoon sunlight. She was a beautiful, iron strong woman, who fairly radiated a maternal love. She wore a soft, white robe with her curly, strawberry-blond hair elegantly twisted up. A few curls had escaped and framed her face nicely in the almost-evening light.

The year-old child squirmed and reached up a chubby hand for the pretty locks, but it was too far for her and she began to fuss. Rose laughed and bent down so that her curls were in reach. Siobhan grasped a tiny handful of the ringlets and tugged at them, cooing her delight and making her mother wince tolerantly.

Rose extricated her hair from the little girl and, tickling her belly, pulled the lovely shawl that served as a light coverlet over Siobhan.

“I love ye,” she whispered, kissing her daughter’s forehead lightly. Siobhan again began to fuss, as she sensed her mother was about to leave.

“Hush,” Rose said softly. “Do nae cry, m’ darling. I’m here.” Resting her elbows on the edge of the crib, Rose stroked Siobhan’s head and began to sing. The baby stilled under her gentle touch, grabbing her finger tightly, and looked up at her mother, fascinated by the angelic voice and soothing words.

“Sleep, O babe, for the red bee hums

The silent twilight’s fall:

Aiobheall from the Grey Rock comes

To wrap the world in thrall.

O leanbhan, O, my child, my joy,

My love and heart’s desire,

The crickets sing you lullaby

Beside the dying fire.

“Dusk is drawn, and the Green Man’s Thorn

Is wreathed in rings of fog:

Siabhra sails his boat ‘til morn

Upon the starry bog.

O leanbhan O, the paly moon

Hath brimmed her cusp in dew,

And weeps to hear the sad sleep-tune,

I sing, O love, to you.

“Faintly, sweetly, the chapel bell,

Rings o’er the valley dim:

Tearman’s peasant voices swell

In fragrant evening hymn,

O leanbhan O, the low bell rings

My little lamb to rest,

Till night is past and morning sings

Its music in your breast…”

Siobhan’s eyelids had begun to droop half way through the old lullaby, and by the time the song finished, Rose knew that the child was fast asleep. She could see the delicate lashes flutter at some dream, and hear the regular, soft puff of breath. She carefully pried open the hand still clutching her index finger, and, inhaling deeply the sweet baby scent, straightened.

Sighing happily, she whispered in a voice barely audible, “I thank ye, oh Lord, for this perfect moment.” With a last glance at her sleeping daughter, Rose slipped out of the room and went to find her husband for dinner.

“C’mon child, hold still,” Seamus admonished his laughing daughter. Fresh out of the bath, she wriggled and squirmed in her father’s arms as he tried to capture her in the clean, white, nightgown. Siobhan squealed with delight and wrenched herself free, heading off down the hallway. Seamus didn’t bother chasing her. He merely called, “If ye don’t get into bed, ye’ll get no story and no song…”

Siobhan paused at the top of the step for a moment. At last, she turned back shyly and, biting her lip coyly, shuffled back over to her father.

“There!” he exclaimed, whisking the nightgown over the wayward girl’s head and ruffling her newly washed (and slightly damp) auburn hair. “Get ye t’ bed and Mother will be there once she’s done gettin’ your wee brother t’ sleep.”

Siobhan stood up on tiptoe to give her father a kiss on the cheek, giggling as his rough gray beard tickled her baby-skin. “Alright, I love ye, too. Now off with ye!” he said mock-gruffly, slapping her rump as she trotted off in the direction of her room.

She picked up her speed to a run and hit the bed at full force, bounced twice, and dove under the covers. She wriggled and kicked until she’d made a cozy little nest for herself, and then, sighing, lay her head down on the pillow and waited for Mother to come, as promised.

In the distance, she could faintly hear Rose’s lovely voice softly singing little Oisin to sleep. Finally, the familiar lullaby trailed off. Siobhan heard the door the nursery creak quietly as Rose brought it to, and then the almost inaudible pad of her mother’s light, dancing footstep.

As the footstep neared the door of Siobhan’s room, she bolted upright with anticipation. Rose opened the door to her daughter’s room to see two wide green gems staring at her. She smiled.

“Why, hello, girl!” she called. “Ye look as if ye were waitin’ for something.”

“Mother, I’m waitin’ for ye!” replied Siobhan promptly.

Rose entered and sat down next to Siobhan’s bed. The girl slipped quickly back under the covers. “Mother,” she said as she was settling herself. “Were you singing my song to baby Oisin?”

“Yes, m’ dear. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

Siobhan wrinkled her nose for a moment and then nodded. “ ’Tis alright. When I have babies, I’m gonna sing it to them!”

“Oh, and how many babies are you going t’ have?” Rose inquired.

“Fifty!” proclaimed the four-year-old.

“Fifty?” asked her mother. “That’s an awful lot. Look at me, I only have five and that keeps me pretty busy.”

Siobhan screwed up her face in concentration. “Well…how about…ten?”

Rose grinned. “Ten sounds good,” she agreed.

Siobhan looked up at her expectantly. “Story?” she asked.

“Story,” Rose agreed. “But ye have to lay your head down, an’ close your eyes.”

Siobhan did as he was told, nestling cozily into the comforter. Rose stroked her daughter’s head, and took the blue shawl from beside the bed and laid it over her. “Alright. I shall tell ye a story of the sidhe, the beautiful people who used to live in Eire before our ancestors came. Long before Saint Patrick ever thought of coming here, there lived a great king of the sidhe, by the name of Angus Og…”

Lying there with her eyes closed tight, Siobhan’s imagination conjured up the images of Eire’s distant past. She drank in every word and pressed them into her young memory. Eventually, however, sleepiness overwhelmed her, and she drifted off to sleep listening to the cadence of her mother’s voice.

Siobhan brushed a sweat-sticky strand of red hair out of her eyes and ducked behind a tree. Peeking out just enough to make sure no one had seen her, she moved lithely from one hiding place to the next. She made good time through the dense underbrush in the forest, managing to make barely a sound as she darted around like a tree nymph, born to the woods.

Slapping a biting mite on her arm, Siobhan cursed the warm bogginess of the day. But she could feel the cooler breeze stirring gently against her skin. The lake was near. Picking up her pace to a run, she leapt over a downed log, half-tumbled down an embankment, and found herself on the shore of Lough Neagh near a group of about ten older boys.

“Dylan!” called the biggest of them. “Your little sister followed us again. I thought ye said she wouldn’t be no more trouble t’ us.”

The tall, dark haired boy sighed and looked down at his sister. “Siobhan, ye should nae be here!” he exclaimed. “I told ye t’ stay home!”

Siobhan scowled. “ I did nae want t’ stay home. I had nothin’ t’ do. I wanted to come be with ye. Ye and your friends know how t’ have fun.”

“Would ye hurry up an’ git rid o’ her?” hissed the big boy. “We didn’t come ‘ere to babysit.”

“Shut your trap, Kevin. I said I’ll take care o’ it.” Dylan got down on one knee in front of the skinny six-year-old girl. “Look, Siobhan, it’s nae that I do nae want ye around, but we’re doin’ things that ye are too young for. Now just go home an’ I promise I’ll spend some time with ye t’night.”

Siobhan’s green eyes lit up. “I knew why ye’re here,” she proclaimed. “Ye came here t’ swim.”

“Yeah, and you can’t swim, lil’ bit,” Dylan shot back.

“Well now,” Kevin said, sensing potential for entertainment. “If she wants t’ try, why not let ‘er have a go?”

“No, she—” Dylan began, but Siobhan was already stripping off her cutoff shorts and t-shirt to reveal the bathing suit underneath.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll have a go.”

“Siobhan, don’t!” Dylan warned.

Kevin ignored him and pointed to an outcropping of rock about five feet over a deep part of the lake. “If ye really want to, ye have t’ dive off o’ that!”

Siobhan gulped.

“Lay off it, Kevin. She’s too little!” Dylan protested.

That settled it. Siobhan nimbly bounded up the rocks and stood on the edge over the dark water as the twelve-year-olds scrambled for a good view. Dylan signaled frantically to Siobhan to give it up, but she ignored him.

Siobhan wriggled her toes on the sun-warmed rock and looked down into the depths. She couldn’t see the bottom. Goose pimples prickled at her skin and she fiddled with her chin length hair nervously. “I can do this,” she whispered to herself.

“Go on,” prodded Kevin nastily.

“Siobhan, don’t do it!” yelled Dylan, starting to rush towards his sister.

Biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut, Siobhan threw herself off the rock. She hit the icy water in a stinging belly flop that knocked the breath out of her small lungs. She found herself sinking down. She kicked her legs as hard as she could and managed to break the surface, gulping air and water together and coughing. She vaguely heard Dylan’s voice yell angrily, “She’ll drown!”

She started sinking again and found that she could keep herself afloat by kicking her legs and rolling over on her belly. Her panic dissipated and she was able to experiment on how to move.

The boys watched in surprise as she righted herself and began to swim. It was no refined stroke, sort of an awkward breaststroke in which she kept her head above water at all times, but it was swimming. Dylan had frozen halfway into the water to rescue her and stood staring.

It took some time and a lot of energy for the girl to get to shore. By the time she’d reached the shallows, she was so tired she could barely stand. But stand she did, in water up to her ankles, her chin thrust out and a look of fierce triumph across her face. She slicked back her short hair, put her hands on her hips, and waited.

Impressed, Kevin said to Dylan, “She can hang with us, I guess. She’s got pluck.”

Dylan grinned and let out a long breath he’d been holding since his sister had plunged into the water. “Yeah, she does. Here, lil’ bit,” he said, tossing his towel at his sister. Leaning down to whisper in her ear, he added, “Don’t ye ever scare me like that again, ye hear?”

Siobhan beamed and nodded. She opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by a sound from the woods. The group turned, and within a few seconds a boy with pale strawberry blond hair had burst out from the brush and stood panting and scratched before them.

“Fionn, what’s wrong?” Dylan demanded immediately.

Glancing in surprise at Siobhan’s presence, the boy of eight blurted out, “Something’s wrong with Mother! She fainted from pain, and Papa’s taking her t’ th’ doc’s right now. Muirinn went with ‘im.”

Dylan’s eyes widened in fear. “Who’s with th’ little ‘uns?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Donnelly,” replied Fionn. “But she cannae stay for long, she’s got ‘er own brood to care for.”

“Let’s go!” Dylan yelled, grabbing his clothes and towel and sprinting off in the direction of home. Fionn was right behind, tired though he was. Siobhan tried to keep up, but despite her talent for the woods, she was too small to be able to stay with them for long. She tripped and got caught in thistles. The faster she tried to go, the more she slipped and fell.

Still she ran, uttering curses she was too young to know. Panic gripped her more every step she got closer to home. What if mother dies? she thought fearfully to herself. Brushing the thought from her mind, she pushed herself faster and faster towards their cottage.

When she reached it, Dylan was already on the global to the hospital, trying to find out what had happened. Niall was sitting quietly, as always, by the fire, taking in everything fairly calmly, considering. Oisin was crying, and Fionn was trying vainly to comfort him.

“Here, Siobhan,” he said when she entered, sweaty, smelly, and terrified. “Ye’re good with ‘im. Ye try.”

Siobhan nodded, maturity automatically replacing fear in the face of an upset child. Brushing Fionn out of the way, she gathered Oisin into her arms and sat down with him on the couch. The three-year-old clung to her as she tried to soothe him the way Mother always had. Niall jumped down off the mantle and climbed up next to his big sister and little brother.

Fionn smiled, trusting in Siobhan’s childcare skills, even if she was only six. He sank, exhausted by his four kilometer run, into the recliner and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, Oisin had stopped crying and was resting in Siobhan’s arms, with Niall leaning against her other side. They all opened their eyes when the heard Dylan’s footstep cross into the living area.

“What’s happening?” Siobhan asked the older boy.

He forced a smile. “Papa says that everything’s alright an’ that we should stay here and wait for him and Mother and Muirinn to come back.”

Siobhan and Fionn let out sighs of relief.

“What’s wrong wit’ Mother?” Fionn demanded.

Dylan shook his head. “Don’t know. But she’s sick, that’s all they’d say.”

The children digested this bit of information silently. After a few moments, Dylan began to set the usual routine in motion, fixing dinner and making sure everyone had a task to occupy his or her minds. The evening passed quietly. Everything was as still and subdued as a funeral parlor, despite assurances that it was, “goin’ t’ be alright”. Everyone went to bed early, and it started raining just after sundown.

Siobhan tossed and turned in her bed, but couldn’t sleep. She didn’t hear a noise from Fionn but she knew that he was still awake. Finally, she crawled out of her bed and stood next to his in the room they shared.

Even though they were two years apart, Fionn and Siobhan were like twins. They were best friends, shared everything, and rarely needed words to get their point across. Fionn pulled back the covers and let his sister climb into bed next to him. He had vaguely heard disapproval from some of their parents’ friends that he and Siobhan slept in the same room and often turned to each other for comfort during the night, but he didn’t understand why anyone should be upset. He had long since decided that as long as Mother and Papa weren’t worried, he shouldn’t be either.

It wasn’t long before Siobhan and Fionn heard the pitter-patter of little feet. Niall and Oisin stood in the doorway, holding hands and looking very pale, illuminated only by the occasional lightening strike. Oisin had his thumb firmly in his mouth and his blue-green eyes were wide.

Glancing at each other, Siobhan and Fionn motioned the little ones in. The two boys piled into the bed and clung to their older siblings for comfort. A few minutes later, there was a lightening strike so close to the house they could almost feel it. Seconds later, Dylan appeared in the door as well.

“Could I…could I stay with ye t’night? I dinnae wish to sleep alone,” the twelve-year-old asked almost timidly.

Siobhan nodded and smiled. There was barely enough room for them all on the bed, but somehow they all fit, huddling together against the darkness. That was how Seamus found them when he brought his wife home long past midnight. Five children all curled into each other so that you could scarcely tell where one ended and the next began. He smiled softly to himself.

Oisin and Niall didn’t wake when he carried them to their beds, and Dylan woke up enough to stumble to his own room. Tucking the quilt around Fionn, he picked up Siobhan in his strong arms and moved her to her own bed. She woke up as he was tucking her in and asked sleepily, “Where’s Mother?”

“Mother’s fine,” he assured her, stroking her fine hair. “Ye are going to have a new sister.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened. “Sister?”

“Aye,” he replied with a smile. “But your mother need to rest in bed until the child comes, so we all have t’ be quiet and helpful for the next months, alright?”

Siobhan nodded. “Alright.” Kissing her father goodnight, she smiled at the thought of a new baby and drifted back off to sleep.

Siobhan Beckett took a flying leapt and landed square in the middle of her mother’s bed, looking up at Rose with her emerald eyes and exclaiming, “I’m home!”

Rose laughed, putting down the wool sweater she was knitting. Though she had a Ph.D. in mythology, she supported her family by selling her hand woven and hand knitted clothing to tourists in the village for exorbitant prices. She had met Seamus, a professor of horticulture, at the university in Belfast. Both had longed for a simpler life and a large family. They had moved to the country to start their life together, and Seamus proved to have such a talent for woodwork that he had started his own business and quickly became known as the best carpenter in three counties. The two easily made enough money to give their children a comfortable lifestyle and not have to spend too much time away.

Twirling a curl of her own strawberry locks, Rose replied to her daughter’s announcement, “I can see that. How was school, love?”

“Fine,” the seven-year-old replied absently, snuggling herself in beside her mother. Rose put an arm around her younger daughter. “Mother, are we Protestant or Catholic?”

Rose sighed seriously. She had known this would come eventually. Turning to look Siobhan in the eyes, she said, “Well, that’s a complicated question.”

Siobhan shrugged, fiddling with the lace trimming of the white down comforter. “Tiernan said that ye were either one or the other. How complicated can that be?”

Rose smiled. “Very. Your father and I come from Protestant families, ye see. But ye know how Protestants and Catholics fight all the time?”

Siobhan nodded.

“Well, when we got married, we decided that th’ fighting was so wrong that we did nae want to be considered Protestant anymore.”

“Why not?” Siobhan asked in her childish innocence.

“Because, love, sometimes Protestants kill Catholics, simply because they’re Catholic. And sometimes it’s th’ other way around. I believe that since we all worship the same God, and pray t’ Jesus, we shouldn’t fight, and that I did nae want to be part of anything that said it was okay t’ hurt people because they worship in a different way or wear a different color.” Rose hoped her daughter could understand what she was talking about.

Siobhan chewed her lip for a moment, thinking it over. She nodded, finally. “That makes sense,” she said. “But why would they even want t’ hurt each other in th’ first place?”

Rose half-smiled sadly. “I do nae know, love. I do nae understand why people kill each other over such little things.”

Siobhan sighed. “What’s a loyalist, Mother? And what’s a…a…” she struggled to remember the word.

“Nationalist?” Rose suggested.

“Aye,” Siobhan agreed. “Nationalist.”

Rose frowned. “A loyalist believes that North Ireland should stay under British rule, and a nationalist believes that Ireland and North Ireland should be one, free and independent nation.”

“Which are we?”

“I believe that Ireland should be her own country, as she was meant to be. But,” Rose held up her hand significantly. “Never, ever, ever should we try t’ bring it about by violence.”

Siobhan’s eyes widened. “People do that?” she asked.

Rose nodded. “Aye. That’s another reason why Catholics and Protestants fight. Most Catholics are nationalists and most Protestants are loyalists. An’ they believe in their viewpoints so strongly, that they think ‘tis okay to kill people to accomplish what they want. Remember when Cousin Myra’s cottage burned down?”

“Aye.”

“That fire was set by loyalists, because she married a Catholic man.”

Siobhan’s jaw literally dropped. “That’s horrible!” she exclaimed.

“Aye, that it is. And some of the nationalists, or republicans, are just as bad. Ye see, I was taught by my father, your Grandfather Liam, that Ireland can never truly be free while her people are killing each other. If Ireland becomes a free country, but brother had to kill brother to do it, then it is nae really free. It is better to be ruled by foreigners than to be free and have Irish blood on Irish hands.” Rose’s hazel eyes locked with her daughter’s green ones and transfixed them. “Listen to me, Siobhan. You must never use violence, do you understand? If you hurt someone to further your cause, your cause becomes tainted and so do you.”

Siobhan had never heard such passion in her mother’s voice before. Even though Rose was still weak-looking and frail, her voice when she spoke was strong and clear and emphatic. Siobhan nodded solemnly, determining never to forget those words of her mother’s.

“There’s me good girl,” Rose said, suddenly seeming tired. She sank back against the pillows, hugging her daughter close. Siobhan laid her head on Rose’s shoulder and sighed in an almost comically grown-up manner. “What is it, m’ love?”

“I miss Grandpa Liam,” she said plaintively.

Rose smoothed back Siobhan’s lovely hair, now shoulder-length. Turning the girl’s head, she began pull it into a loose French braid. “So do I,” she said softly. “But as long as ye remember him, a part of him will always be alive.”

Siobhan nodded, her elfin face sadly thoughtful. “When I have a baby, I’m going to name him Liam, just like Grandpa,” she decided.

Rose hid her proud smile. “There!” she said, tying off the braid and kissing Siobhan’s cheek. “Now, git out o’ here, ye little rascal. And change your jeans, while ye are at it. They’re positively filthy!”

Siobhan grinned toothily, showing her two missing teeth. “Tiernan and I took th’ long way home from school, through the woods, and twas still wet from the rain last night.”

Rose sighed. “I’m not sure I like th’ idea of ye spending so much time wi’ Tiernan. His family has some nasty links, an’ they aren’t the pacifist type.”

“Oh, he’s all right, Mother,” Siobhan assured her. “He’s got some strange ideas, but he wouldn’t do nothin’. Besides, all th’ girls at school are horrible. All they care about is lookin’ nice an’ making eyes at older boys. They all wear these dumb, frilly dresses and act like ‘tis murder t’ even get a bit messy. And they all think acting like twits is better than learning what we’re supposed t’. An’ all the lads do is fight wi’ each other over nothing. Tiernan’s the only one o’ the lot that’s enna fun!”

“Okay,” Rose said reluctantly, laughing at the girl’s description of the other children. “But whenever ye hear one of his ‘strange ideas’, ye just make sure to tell him what you believe. Ye must always, always, stand up for what ye know t’ be right, and not be afraid of what other people think of ye for it. Will ye promise me that?”

“Aye,” Siobhan said eagerly. “Besides, if I just let Tiernan think he’s right all the time, he’ll start getting uppity!”

Rose laughed again and then shooed Siobhan out of the room. She lay back with a smile and put her hand contentedly to the growing mound of her belly. Siobhan certainly knew how to take care of herself, Rose thought. The child was so mature in a lot of ways. Even Dylan, the ‘responsible one’, hadn’t been quite so independent at that age. Siobhan was quite the remarkable one.

“Wait!” Siobhan called as she pounded down the stairs. “Don’t leave yet!” She rushed outside to where the old truck was parked, with Rose and Seamus waiting inside. She ran around to the passenger’s side and climbed up on the running board to stick her head through the open window.

“I almost thought ye were going t’ let me leave without saying goodbye!” Rose joked.

“Never!” Siobhan exclaimed, her eyes wide. “Here, I want you to take this with you.” She shoved her baby blanket, the shawl she had been given at birth, into her mother’s hands.

Rose smiled, touched. “Thank ye, sweetheart. I bring it back t’ ye, I promise.”

“Is…is everything going t’ be alright?” Siobhan asked tentatively.

“Aye, imp,” Seamus told her from the driver’s side in his reassuring baritone.

“And when we get back, ye’ll have a new baby sister,” Rose put in.

“But then why are ye going t’ hospital?” Siobhan demanded. “Ye stayed at home t’ have the rest o’ us.”

“This has been a very difficult pregnancy,” Rose explained patiently. “The doc wants me to have th’ baby in the hospital so that if anything goes wrong, they can fix it lickity-quick.”

“I guess,” Siobhan said reluctantly.

“Now, go back inside with the others,” Rose told her. “We need t’ go. We should be back in a week. Listen to Dylan, and Neasa’s right down th’ road. She’ll look in on ye everyday, and if ye have problem just go to her or Mrs. Donnelly. Cousin Myra will be down t’ stay with ye all as soon as she can, and the number for Armagh hospital is right on the fridge.”

Siobhan nodded, kissed her mother, and ran around the other side of the truck to throw her arms around her father. Kissing him on the cheek, she stepped back and let them pull out. She stood in the driveway waving until they were long out of sight.

The week passed slowly. Despite the time being filled with school, taking care of the house, looking after the young ones, and trying to stave off neighbor’s attempts to “take care o’ th’ poor li’l dears”, there never seemed to be enough to keep them busy.

Dylan and Muirinn did a good job of playing surrogate parents while Seamus and Rose were away. Cousin Myra came after three days, but even after she was there, the kids were mostly self-sufficient. In times of trouble, they tended to turn to each other for comfort. Around noon on the Saturday that Rose and Seamus were supposed to return, the global rang.

“I got it!” Muirinn called, rushing to pick up. “Papa!” she exclaimed as Seamus Beckett’s kind features filled the screen.

“Papa?” Niall asked from the living room. “Everybody, it’s Papa calling!”

A stampede from all corners of the house ensued. Dylan got there first, spitting image of his father. “Is Mother all right?” the thirteen-year-old asked breathlessly. “Is the baby okay? Are you coming home soon?” By now the other children had crowded around the view screen, Siobhan with little Oisin in her arms.

Seamus’ gray eyes were serious. “Now, I want none o’ ye t’ worry, but we’re going t’ be awhile before we can come home.”

The kids all erupted in a flurry of worried and confused questions. Seamus held up a hand for silence and they quieted immediately.

“Mother is fine,” he told them firmly. “She’s just tired. But th’ baby needs t’ stay here for awhile. She’s got t’ have a couple o’ operations, but she should be okay. I’m not sure when we’ll be able t’ come home, though. Will ye be all right without us for awhile?”

Dylan looked around at the faces of the five other children. With the exception of Oisin, who was too young to understand what was happening, they were all doggedly determined not to show their apprehension. But he could sense the fear under the faces they put on for their father.

“We’ll do alright,” Dylan said bravely, his face grave.

“Don’t worry about a thing, eleven-year-old Muirinn put in. “Everything’s fine here.”

Seamus smiled, relieved. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. Mother sends her love. Now somebody go get Myra and the rest of ye scoot on out of ‘ere. I need to speak to her alone.”

They all cleared out. Myra was on the global with Seamus for a long time. When she hung up, she seemed sad, but she didn’t say anything and the children didn’t ask. It was three weeks before Seamus and Rose returned to their homey cottage by the shore of Lough Neagh with their new baby daughter.

They were greeted by being nearly trampled by all five kids, who were so overjoyed to have their parents back that they seemed ready to explode with celebration. Rose and Seamus hugged and kissed and petted enthusiastically. Rose fairly glowed

“Stand back, give ‘em room t’ breathe!” Dylan exclaimed at last, trying to clear a space around the couple. Rose held in her arms a tiny bundle wrapped in white blankets.

“Is that th’ baby?” Siobhan asked, pushing her way to the front.

Rose nodded, bending down so that the little girl could see. The baby stared up curiously at her auburn-haired sister with bright blue eyes.

“She’s so small!” Siobhan exclaimed. Indeed, the baby was tiny for her age. Her skin was almost transparently fair, with a downy covering of pale blond hair covering her little head. “What’s her name? May I hold her?”

Rose smiled, carefully handing Siobhan the baby. Siobhan held her as though she was a china doll, ever so fragile. “Her name’s Aisling,” Rose said. “She small because she’s been sick. Her heart doesn’t work right, so she won’t be able to run about and play as roughly as the rest of you do.” She said this matter-of-factly, but even Siobhan could sense the deep sadness in her tone, and the sense that she wasn’t telling them everything.

Looking down at the tiny, sleepy face of her baby sister, Siobhan murmured softly, “Do nae worry, Aisling. I’ll take care of ye, I promise. I’m your big sister, and I will nae let ennathing happen t’ ye.”

Siobhan hurried along the dirt road to the schoolhouse in an effort to keep herself warm. It was a downright freezing November day, and there was even a light dusting of snow on the ground. She pulled her coat around herself and broke in to a bit of a jog, clutching her books tightly. It wouldn’t do to drop them on a day like this, with muddy slush puddles all over.

“Hey, girl! Wait up!” called a voice from behind her. She slowed and turned, grinning, to see her best friend struggling to catch her.

“Not m’ problem if ye can nae keep up, Tiernan!” she shot back.

The tawny-haired, freckled boy drew up along side her, puffing. “Not me,” he protested. “It’s these blasted boots Mum makes me wear! Can’t run worth a darn in ‘em.”

Siobhan surveyed her friend’s footwear critically. “Aye, I see your point,” she admitted, matching her pace to his. Tiernan had just turned ten, making him half a year older than her, a fact which she greatly resented but saw no way of changing. He wasn’t taller than average for his age, but he was already taller than she was. Siobhan was, in fact, the shortest kid in their grade. The other children knew better than to pick on her, however.

They rounded the last bend in the road, and the old, tiny schoolhouse came into sight. Neagh Moor was a very small, village, and as a result they couldn’t afford to hire more than a couple of teachers. The schoolhouse consisted of two classrooms, a lunchroom, and two washrooms. All grades of children were mixed together (until high school, when they took the bus forty kilometers to a school made up of teens from all the towns too small for their own high school) and somehow, they all learned what they needed to.

Siobhan noticed immediately that none of their schoolmates were outside. “Hellfire, we’re late!” she swore, breaking into a run. Tiernan banged along behind his slim, nimble friend. They threw their wraps willy-nilly in the coatroom and tried to sneak into the back of class. Ms. Reese, the American-born teacher, looked sternly at them, but said nothing.

They did their lessons quietly, trying not to attract any attention, and then leapt from their seats the second the bell rang for morning recess. Ms. Reese looked after them and shook her head. Well, she supposed she could let it go, this time. They weren’t late often, and she just didn’t have the heart to call them back.

Outside, Tiernan and Siobhan didn’t stop running until they reached the swings at the edge of the schoolyard, where they sat, breathless and laughing at their own daring.

“We’re goin’ t’ Dublin next weekend,” Tiernan said airily, beginning to swing.

Siobhan respond to his swinging as a challenge and began pumping her own legs to go higher than he. “Lucky!” she told him enviously. “I been there a couple o’ times. It’s nice.”

“Da said ye can come with, if ye want,” he informed her with a grin.

Siobhan was so surprised she forgot what she was doing, and Tiernan momentarily surpassed her in swinging height. “Really?” she asked, delighted. “I—”

Her words were cut off by a booming sound that made her heart leap into her throat. She and Tiernan both looked toward the schoolhouse in time to see it erupt in a large explosion. Siobhan went white as sheet. “Niall’s in there!” she screamed, jumping off the swing. She hit the ground hard and rolled instinctively to protect herself. She came up running, headed for the flaming building.

Oisin and Aisling were too young to go school, Dylan went to the high school, and Fionn and Muirinn had both come down with chicken pox and were home sick, but Siobhan knew Niall was still inside. He always helped straighten up during recess. He was so sweet and helpful.

“Siobhan, no!” Tiernan yelled after her. He followed, but he had no hope of reaching her. Mr. McGrath was trying to keep all the children outside calm, and he didn’t see Siobhan racing towards danger until after she had plunged into the flames. The fire was thriving on the thatched roof and dry wooden beams. It was only a matter of time before it all collapsed.

Siobhan darted in as fast as she could. It was hot, and the smoke choked her and made her eyes water so that she could barely see. She remembered something her mother had told her, and went as close to the floor as she could. After agonizing seconds, she spotted her brother crouched under his desk, crying.

“ ’Tis okay,” she sputtered, coughing. She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. “We have t’ get out o’ here.”

Siobhan led the way back towards the outside, all but dragging the little boy. Halfway to the door, a beam collapsed, landing two feet in front of her. She shrieked and jumped back as the sparks burned her skin, covering Niall’s body with her own. She heard screaming behind her, and turned to see Ms. Reese in hysterics.

“I don’t know how to get out!” the American woman yelled. “I can’t see anything!”

“I know how t’ get out,” Siobhan said, not sure how to react to an adult who was so upset. “This way.”

“I can’t see!” sobbed Ms. Reese again.

Siobhan took a deep breath and shoved Niall with all her might towards the door. “Keep running straight!” she yelled after him. Then licking her cracking and bleeding lips, she went back. “Take my hand, Ms. Reese,” she heard herself saying steadily, hardly noticing the pain from the soles of her feet. “I know th’ way out.”

The woman gripped her small hand like an iron claw and Siobhan pulled her forward. To her dismay, she found another beam had fallen in their path, this one still flaming. There was no way around. “We have t’ jump!” she told her teacher. It hurt to breathe; the air was boiling around her.

“How far?” Ms. Reese asked, franticly.

“About a meter, I think,” Siobhan said shakily. “We’ll have t’ run for it.”

Taking a gulp of the too-hot air, she sprung forward, dragging her teacher behind her with every ounce of strength in her nine-year-old body. She felt her clothing catch fire as they leapt up and over and kept running, diving out the door a bare second before it collapsed, along with the whole roof. Siobhan immediately did as she had been taught. Stop, drop, and roll, she thought to herself, making sure all the flames were out. Only then did she begin to breathe again, taking great gulps of the cool, fresh air.

Then it hit her what she had done. She had forgotten to be afraid through the whole ordeal, but now she realized what had just happened. Tiernan was kneeling next to her, concerned. “I’m alright,” she slurred, drained of all energy, and promptly fainted dead away.

When she awoke she was lying on a blanket in the snow, covered by a familiar coat. She looked up to see her Mother standing over her. “Mum!” she cried, and Rose reached down to scoop her daughter into her arms.

“Oh, I was so worried, baby!” she breathed.

Siobhan got a stranglehold on her mother and started crying. “I was scared, Mum,” she sobbed. “I thought Niall was going t’ die!”

“It’s okay, darling,” Rose soothed, stroking the girl’s auburn hair. “Niall’s fine, the doctor’s checking ‘im out, but ye saved him, m’ love. Ye have a few tiny burns and scratches, and ye are going t’ feel like ye’ve had a pretty bad sunburn for awhile, but ye are fine, too.”

“What about Ms. Reese?” Siobhan sniffled. “Is she okay?”

Rose’s expression sobered, but she tried to keep her tone comforting. “Well, they’re taking good care of her, I know.”

“What happened?” she asked, her green eyes wide. Siobhan had recovered from her shock enough for her natural curiosity to take over.

“Come on, m’ love, let’s go home and get you t’ bed,” Rose said quickly. “We’ll worry about that later.”

Siobhan later found out that a bomb had exploded at her school.

“A bomb?” she asked from her bed where she had been confined for two days, at least. “But why, Mum? We’re just kids. Who’d want t’ hurt us?”

Rose sadly explained that almost all the kids who went to the school were Protestant, and that it had been a Republican terrorist group who had put the bomb there. Siobhan cried for three hours after hearing that. Rose’s heart broke to watch her. She hated what was happening to her people, and she had hoped desperately to spare Siobhan from the reality of the situation. But that obviously wasn’t possible anymore.

When Siobhan had slept again, and was a little better off, Rose told her, “I do nae want any of ye going back to that school. It’s not safe anymore. Do ye think ye can learn at home from now on, over the computer?” she asked.

“Aye,” Siobhan said solemnly, after thinking it over for a minute. “Will the others be learning at home, too? I do nae want them t’ get hurt, either.”

Rose smiled at the big-heartedness of her young daughter. “Yes, m’ love, all except Dylan. He’s almost done with school, an’ it would nae be fair to take him out now. Aisling would have to be homeschooled anyway because—” She stopped suddenly.

Siobhan’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “Mum, how is Ms. Reese doing?”

Rose sighed and tucked a curl behind her ear. “She lost her sight,” she said honestly. “And she’ll have burn scars forever. But she’s alive because o’ you. An’ so’s your brother. I’m so proud of ye.”

Siobhan nodded again but frowned, her young brow creasing.

“Get some more sleep, dearest,” Rose said, kissing her forehead and pulling to covers over her. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”

The girl fell into a sleep of emotional exhaustion that was so deep it kept all dreams away, even dreams of her recent terrifying experience. It was the last time in her life she slept without nightmares.

“Not bad, imp, but ye need t’ hit harder,” Fionn said to his little sister in the heat of the mid-summer day, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He held up his hands. “Here, try it again. Remember, ye’ve got t’ throw it from your hip. Do nae try t’ use just the strength in your arms. Use your shoulder, your hip, put that whole side of your body in t’ it.”

Siobhan nodded shortly, blowing a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes. She threw a good right cross, connecting solidly with her brother’s palm.

“Again!” Fionn told her. She threw another one, this time hitting his hand hard enough to make him take a half step back to keep his balance. “Better!” he exclaimed, dropping his hands. “Now, try t’ hit me.”

Siobhan hesitated.

“C’mon,” he urged her. “Ye ain’t going t’ hurt me.”

She bit her lip, shrugged, and tossed out a punch. Fionn bobbed left and avoid it easily.

“Aim, girl!” he shouted. “Ye’ll never hit ennathing like that!”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes, pulled back, and let fly. Fionn, who was feeling very superior and a little cocky by now, didn’t dodge nearly fast enough, and her punch connected powerfully with his nose. He tumbled backward and landed squarely on his rump on the soft turf.

Siobhan stood there with a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and her face forming a round O. “I…” she said, wondering how to apologize.

Fionn just stared up at her in amazement. He was thirteen, and sprouting up quickly. He’d begun to fill out, and had developed broad shoulders and strong muscles. His curly hair had darkened from strawberry blond to a soft, slightly ruddy, brown.

He put his hand to his nose and found that it was bloody. A grin split his face, dimpling his cheeks. He jumped to his feet, his gray-green eyes sparkling with delight, and swept Siobhan off her feet and into a bear hug. “Ye did it!” he whooped.

Their little celebration was broken up by a familiar voice. “Fionn, Siobhan! Just what d’ ye think ye are doing?” Rose Beckett demanded sternly of them, pushing her way into the clearing they had sequestered themselves in.

They turned guiltily to face her. Fionn stepped in front of Siobhan protectively. “Hi, Mum,” he said, turning on his best charming smile.

“Fionn, ye are bleeding!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

The boy sighed. “I was sort o’…teaching Siobhan how t’ fight.”

“Ye were what?” Rose was incredulous. “Fionn, how could ye? Ye know how I feel about violence, an’ teaching an eleven-year-old girl how t’ fight…” she broke off, angry.

Fionn’s face reddened but he stood his ground. “Mother, she’s got t’ learn t’ defend herself,” he said calmly. “Ye said yourself ‘tis a dangerous world, an’ she’s gotten into t’ three fights this month with the kids in the village. An’ lost.”

“Siobhan, is that true?” Rose asked. “Ye said ye got banged up running around th’ woods with Tiernan.”

The girl stepped out from behind her brother. “Aye,” she said quietly. “They were roughing up th’ little kids, picking on ‘em something awful. I couldn’t just let ‘em get hurt.” She looked pleadingly at her mother.

Fionn jumped in. “Ye wouldn’t have had her just go on by, Mum, would ye? And she did nae stand a chance against those bullies. She’ll get hurt if she doesn’t learn enough to protect ‘erself.”

Rose held up her hands in surrender, sighing deeply. The boy was right, and she hated it, hated the necessity. “Alright, but only for self-defense. Do nae go around picking fight, ye hear me?”

Siobhan nodded, smiling. “I won’t.”

Rose shook her head, kissed both her very dirty children and left, saying, “Dinner’s in half and hour. Do nae miss it.”

They nodded and went back to their practicing. Fionn was proud of his little sister. Not only could she fight well, once she learned how, but she always stood up for the little kids in the village. And she’d almost broken his nose! Yes, she was turning out just fine.

After about twenty minutes more, Fionn looked at his watch. “We’d better be heading home. We’ll hardly have enough time t’ clean up before supper, an’ there’ll be hell t’ pay if we show up at the table like this.”

Siobhan nodded. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Fionn shrugged, ruffled her hair affectionately, and sauntered towards the house, whistling brightly. Siobhan stood in the clearing and stretched her lithe little body, reveling in the powerful feeling of control. It felt so wonderful just to know that if someone tried to hurt her, she could stop them. Or stop them from hurting someone else.

Just as she was about to go in to supper, she heard the sound of boyish laughter, coming from the grassy slope behind the trees. She got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Without a second thought, she ran pell-mell through the wood, leaping over obstacles with such agility that she seemed to be flying. She burst out onto the slope to see three village boys, about her age, with digging tools. They were digging up the grave mounds.

“What are ye doing?” she demanded before she could think better of it.

“Digging for buried treasure,” the tallest of the boys replied. “I heard there’s some pretty nice stuff buried ‘round here.”

Incensed, Siobhan stepped forward. “How dare ye?” she snapped, remembering the lessons her grandfather and mother had so carefully taught her. “This is an ancient graveyard, a holy, sacred place. The old kings of Ireland are buried in places like this. There are secrets here which do nae belong t’ us, things that no one should ever know again. How can ye not respect that?”

Siobhan was not only outraged, but disbelieving. Mother and Grandfather Liam had drummed this into her ever since she was small. She hadn’t considered the possibility that there might be people who either didn’t know or simply didn’t revere their history.

The boys shrugged, looking at her stupidly. “Who cares?” one of them asked. “That was thousands of years ago, they’re all dead now. We’re livin’, why shouldn’t we get something out of it? Besides, who’s going t’ stop us. Ye?”

“Aye,” Siobhan said, knowing a challenge when she heard one. A part of her told her that she was picking a fight, but she wasn’t about to leave now, even to bring back help. Who knew what kind of damage the boys could do in that time?

“Ye?” the tall one scoffed incredulously.

“Try me,” she said evenly, not letting her terror show. One, she could handle. Three, bigger than her…Well, she’d try not to think about it.

The small, stocky one came at her, more interested in scaring the little nuisance than actually getting into a scrap. Trembling a little, she pivoted on her right foot and kicked up with her left, slamming him squarely in the chest. He fell to the ground, the wind thoroughly knocked out of him. He’d have a nasty bruise in the shape of her foot, later.

Siobhan started to hyperventilate. What had she gotten herself into? She should have run for Dylan or Father, not tried to get rid of them by herself. If she’d had her sling she could have run them off…maybe, but not like this. Wait, something was wrong. They weren’t rushing her like they should have once she’d downed one of their mates.

“Siobhan, are ye all right?” a familiar voice sounded from behind her.

She let out a long sigh of relief. “Tiernan, what are ye doin’ here?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the boys.

“I thought I’d come see if your mum would let me stay for supper,” the powerfully built blond boy replied, drawing up beside her. The village kids were clearly reconsidering their position. Tiernan was half a head taller than any of them, and quite a good fighter. Between him and this strange, wild girl, they probably didn’t stand a chance.

“I’d hate t’ see what Dylan Beckett would do if his favorite sister got beat up,” Tiernan said far too casually. “Or had to beat someone else up. In fact, he’s almost as sensitive as she is about this graveyard. Ye might want t’ clear out of here before he comes looking for Siobhan and finds out that ye’ve been digging here.”

The boys hastily gathered up their tools, but stood staring at Siobhan and Tiernan for a moment, rather overawed and idiotically confused. Then they turned and headed quickly down the slope towards their homes in Neagh Moor. “C’mon, Siobhan,” Tiernan said, taking grasping her skinny upper arm firmly. “Let’s go have supper.”

“Aye,” she said, staring after them, her voice steely and coldly distant. “Let’s go have supper.”

Tiernan took her hand and led her back toward her house. Ten seconds later, she calmed down enough to truly show her anger.

“They were going t’ dig,” she spat. “Dig. They were going t’ go through the burial mounds t’ loot them.” She was almost crying, but stubbornly resisting the urge to break down. “Tiernan, how could they? Why can’t they understand.”

He put a comforting arm around her slim shoulders. “I do nae know, Siobhan,” he said heavily, in a tone far too old for his eleven and a half years. “I do nae know.”

“How’s the basement coming?” Rose called down to her daughter. “Clean yet?”

“Sort of,” Siobhan called back distractedly, sneezing at the dustiness of the old, very dirty cellar. Her Grandfather Liam had grown up in this house and she had the sneaky suspicion that the basement hadn’t been cleaned since he was her age. Sighing, she made her way over piles of junk (ancient, antique, and merely old) to the far back corner.

She took a few halfhearted swipes at a forgotten desk and sighed again. There were a million and one fun things she could think of doing on a crisp fall day like this one, and none of them included cleaning the cellar. Dylan, Fionn, and Muirinn had managed to conveniently absent themselves when Rose decided that it had gone long enough without a thorough dusting, and Siobhan had ended up with the unpleasant task.

Suddenly, an old, black leather trunk in the corner of the musty room caught her attention. Something about it seemed to draw her in, to call to her. She gathered her now-shoulder length auburn hair into a loose ponytail and fumbled for the light in the corner. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered reluctantly to life, illuminating the trunk tolerably well.

She knelt in front of it and, rolling up the sleeves of her old, comfy sweatshirt, examined the lock. It wasn’t rusted at all, but she couldn’t believe that the key would still be around. She didn’t want to break it, Mum had taught her better than that. The trunk was an heirloom, after all.

She jumped up and rummaged through the desk she had been pretending to clean until she found what she was looking for. A paperclip. Dylan had taught her how to pick a lock on her last birthday, after months of begging on her part. “I guess twelve isn’t too young t’ learn,” he’d said. “Just don’t go breaking into people’s houses, and don’t tell Mum and Dad that I taught ye.”

She’d promised solemnly, and then picked up the skill with a speed that was dizzying. She unbent the paper clip and half a minute later the old lock popped open. She carefully lifted the heavy lid. The hinges squeaked painfully.

At first it seemed there was nothing special inside. Some clothes from the late nineteenth century, a few books. An old, useless fiddle. Nothing that didn’t have counterparts scattered in various parts of the basement. Siobhan would have given up in boredom, but something drove her on. She carefully removed the items one at a time, setting them on the floor next to her. By the time she had taken everything out of the trunk, she had found nothing unusual. Still, a part of her knew there was something in there.

She patted the wooden inside of the trunk helplessly. It sounded hollow. Bad mystery movies full of secret compartments running through her head, she felt along the sides slowly. Her fingernails caught in a crack where side met bottom, and she pried at it. It moved, with a little effort, and she was able to lift up the entire bottom—false bottom—of the old trunk.

Nestled snugly in the hidden compartment was a black onyx case with words and symbols inscribed on the top. She knew the words were Irish, but she couldn’t read them. She hadn’t paid as much attention to her language lessons as she should have, and it looked different anyway.

“Siobhan? Progress?” her mother’s voice wafted down to the basement.

“Uh, yeah,” she called back, mesmerized. Reverently she lifted the case out of its hiding place and hugged it tightly to her chest. She scrambled to her feet and ran up the rickety staircase. “Mum, what’s this?” she asked, coming up into the kitchen.

“What’s what, love?” Rose asked, putting down the bread dough she had been kneading and wiping her hands on a damp towel.

“This.” Siobhan held out the case. Rose’s eyes went wide at the sight. She took the mysterious object from her daughter and went over to the kitchen table. She sat down, setting it on the table, and played distractedly with a strawberry-blond curl.

“Well, I’ve never thought I’d see this again,” Rose breathed. “I thought my Da had gotten rid of it after my Mum died.” She shook herself out of her reverie and smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “Have ye tried t’ open it yet?” she asked.

Siobhan shook her head.

“Well, there’s a bit o’ a trick t’ it. You have to press in here, at the same time you press down there.” She demonstrated, pressing two sets of buttons on the top and side simultaneously. Siobhan heard the catch release and her mother opened the old case to reveal a folded board, like a game board, and about a dozen little white stone-like things, the size and shape of checkers.

“What is it?” she prodded again.

“It’s a rune board,” Rose said. “It belonged t’ your Grandfather Liam, and his father before him.” Seeing her daughter’s confused look, she explained, “Runes are an old Celtic form of fortune-telling. Each of these—” She picked up one of the bits of what proved to be bone with a symbol inscribed on it. “—have a different meaning. Ye lay them out on the board in a certain way and then read them in a certain order. Depending on what rune comes up in what order, with what combination of other runes, you have a different meaning.”

“Will ye teach me?” Siobhan asked. “Please?”

Rose thought for a second. “Well, it’s been awhile, but I think I can do a little better than just teaching ye.” She got up from the table and motioned to Siobhan to follow. She led her over to one of the many bookcases in their house and, after a moment of reflection, selected a dusty old volume. “This book will tell ye everything about how t’ use and interpret that board.”

Siobhan took it eagerly and then her face fell. “It’s in Irish,” she said.

“Of course it’s in Irish, girl! This is a very old book and a very old board. Ye would nae expect them be in English, would ye?” Rose’s eyes twinkled slyly.

“But I do nae know enough Irish t’ read it!” Siobhan protested.

“Well, then if ye really want t’ learn, then ye’ll have to learn the language as well, will ye not?”

“But—” Siobhan began before belatedly realized the trap her mother had lain for her. She made a sound of frustration, but held on to the book and went back to the kitchen table where her prize rested. Rose followed, smiling.

“Mum?” she asked, fingering the runes lovingly. “Does it really work? What do ye believe?”

Rose sighed, and sat down. She chose her words carefully. “I believe in God, and Jesus, and the Holy Spirit,” she began slowly. “But, there is a power in this, a certain truth. Let me make myself clear: this is not a game. Nor is it a toy. If you want to learn t’ use, good. Believe in it, let it guide ye if ye think it best. But use your own mind, and don’t think simply because the runes tell ye something, it’s written in stone or even likely t’ happen. Don’t let it control ye.”

Siobhan nodded gravely, but frowned her confusion. “Control me?” she asked worriedly.

Rose smiled. “Not like that, love. What I mean is this. Suppose that the runes told ye that something bad was going t’ happen, an’ ye believed it. Ye could become so certain that something bad was really going t’ happen that ye’d unconsciously go looking for something bad, without even knowing it. Or ye could get fatalistic an’ not avoid something bad even when ye could. It’s what they call a self-fulfilling prophecy. Ye understand?”

“I think so,” Siobhan said.

“Good. So be smart, and don’t take it too lightly or too seriously. And remember, no matter what runes say, God’s the one who has the final say, love.”

Siobhan nodded again, this time a little impatiently. “May I go try t’ read the book now?”

“As soon as ye are done cleaning the basement,” Rose told her. “The faster ye get that done, the faster ye can do what ye want.”

Siobhan sighed and resigned herself to the situation. “Can I at least put them in my room first.”

“Yes, ye may do that,” Rose said.

Siobhan raced up the stairs to the room she shared with Aisling like the tomboy she was, and carefully hid her new treasure under her bed. Then she raced back down to the basement and went to work with a vengeance, determined to clean the basement in record time.

Record time proved to be a bit longer than she had expected. But she doggedly continued, coming up only long enough to wolf down supper in the way only a growing child could and then continue her work. It was after eight when she emerged, dusty, dirty, exhausted, but triumphant.

Rose grinned at her daughter and said, “Thank ye, m’ love. Why don’t ye go take a shower and I’ll see if I can find ye some dessert, okay?”

Siobhan nodded tiredly and made her way to the downstairs bathroom, peeling off her sweaty clothes as she went, modesty all but forgotten. When she came out, much cleaner and with a bit more energy, Rose was waiting with a slice of pumpkin pie and a glass of milk.

“Thanks, Mum,” Siobhan said gratefully, taking the plate and balancing it on top of the glass. “Can I…may I eat it upstairs?”

“All right, just this once, I s’pose,” Rose agreed. Siobhan kissed her mother on the cheek, and then headed for her room. She went in quietly, knowing that Aisling was probably already asleep. Sure enough, the six-year-old was slumbering peacefully in her own bed, white-blond hair fanned out on the pillow. Siobhan watched her for a minute, to be sure she wouldn’t wake. Aisling generally slept very deeply, but it never hurt to be sure.

The little girl, the baby of the family, was very skinny. All the Beckett children were generally lean, and Siobhan herself was extremely skinny. But while Siobhan was wiry, Aisling was simply fragile. She was like a little glass doll. She was sick an awful lot, too.

Overcome by a sudden wave of love for her baby sister who, unlike Oisin and even Niall sometimes, was never annoying, Siobhan crossed the room to tuck the covers more tightly around her and kiss her soft, pale little cheek and stroke the flaxen hair she had always envied.

Then, she went to back to her side of the room and dug up not only the rune board and instruction book, but also her Irish dictionary and her grammar book, both dusty for want of use. Settling cross-legged on the bed, she spread the books out in a semi-circle around her and balanced the plate of pie on her knee. Soon she was deep in her studies, trying to makes sense of all the information she had and pausing only long enough to absently take a bite of pie or a sip of milk.

When finally her eyes began to strain and her head began to hurt, she looked at the clock to discover that it was past eleven. She could barely stay awake, but resolved to decipher the meaning of just one more piece. Forcing her over-tired mind to make sense of the Irish words on the page before her, and matching the symbol in her hand with the one in the page of the book, she read painstakingly slowly.

A shiver ran down her spine. Death. It was the rune for death. She remembered the words of caution her mother had given her, and resolved not to be bothered by it. After all, that rune didn’t necessarily mean that someone was going to die, it all depended on what else it was combined with, the order it was drawn, its place on the board. It was all relative, she told herself. Just reading the rune itself while studying didn’t mean anything, did it? Of course not. That was nonsense.

Still, she had a strange feeling in her stomach as she carefully put her things away where they belonged, and closed the onyx case firmly so that the catch clicked into place. She tried to banish the feeling of dread with her mother’s words. No, no self-fulfilling prophecies for her. She would not let it get to her.

The sound of a voice startled her and she jumped.

“Woah, li’l bit,” her brother Dylan said, coming into her room. “I was just saying goodnight, no need t’ flip. Ye look as though ye’ve been scared half-witless. What are ye doing up at this hour anyways.”

“I was just doing some reading,” she said.

The eighteen-year-old boy looked at her skeptically. “Well, ye should be asleep. C’mon, into bed with ye,” he said, turning back the covers and letting her scramble underneath.

Siobhan worshiped Dylan, as did the rest of the kids in the village. Sometimes he teased her and even roughed her up, but he never let anyone else mess with her. He was always the good, protective big brother. Even once he became a teenager, he shared secrets with her, and worried about whatever she was worried about.

“G’night, li’l bit,” he said, squeezing her hand. His crystal clear blue eyes, like Rose’s, sparkled down at her. The light from Siobhan’s reading lamp illuminated his devastatingly handsome features. He brushed back a bit of his black hair from his forehead and turned off the light. Siobhan heard his footsteps go down the hall to his own room.

Siobhan nestled contentedly into the covers, the death rune forgotten and the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach almost completely gone. Almost. She fell asleep quickly, her exhaustion overwhelming anything else on her mind.

She awoke several hours later, sitting bolt upright in bed and breathing heavily. It was just a dream, she told herself. ‘Twas nae real. It was the fire dream again. People she loved being burned up, herself being trapped in a burning building. She figured she should be used to it by now, she’d been having it for almost three years, but it still scared her.

Real fire scared her, too. She’d hidden her fear of any flames, even candles, from her parents as well as she could. She thought they didn’t know, but Rose, of course, had noticed how she disappeared whenever someone started a fire in the fireplace, or how Tiernan and Fionn always found some excuse to call her away when someone started messing around with candles or suggested having bonfire in the yard. Rose hadn’t said anything. She knew Siobhan would deal with it in her own time, and her in own way. A mother’s interference would do little good in a situation like this.

Siobhan forced herself to calm down. Just a dream, she repeated. After a moment, she realized that something other than the dream had awakened her. There was noise coming from downstairs. People rushing. The smell of smoke in the air. Her throat tightened. Something was very wrong.

She pushed back her panic and flew out of her bed and down the stair wearing only her thin cotton nightgown. She found her mother about to run out of the kitchen. “Mum, what’s happening?” she called.

Rose turned to her daughter, fear plain on her face. “There’s been an accident at the Donnelly’s,” she said hurriedly. “The cat knocked over a candle and started a fire. Your father and Fionn and Dylan are over there now, trying t’ put it out. Ye stay here with Muirinn and the others.” Then she was gone.

Siobhan glanced at her older sister, trying to calm down Niall and Oisin. “Siobhan, go make sure Aisling’s alright,” Muirinn told her distractedly, not looking at her.

Siobhan nodded, but instead screwed up her courage and ran out the front door. Aisling was asleep and not likely to wake up soon, she knew. But Fionn and Dylan were out there. Terror coursed through her body as she remembered the death rune. Its image burned in her mind as she drove herself onward.

The flaming house was clearly visible. When she got there, it was completely engulfed in fire.

“Siobhan! Get home, now!” Rose barked at her, charcoal smearing her face and a bucket of water in hand. The fire truck was on its way, but the nearest station was two towns over. Until then, friends and neighbors had formed a bucket brigade to try and keep the fire at bay.

Siobhan wanted desperately to run, run as far away as she could, but she was rooted to the spot. Rose had no time to spare to make sure her daughter did as she said, and was forced to assume her instant obedience. Instead, Siobhan stood rooted to the spot, watching in numb horror as her father and brothers tried to put out the flames.

“Th’ little ones!” Mrs. Donnelly wailed. “They’re still in there! They were sleeping. Oh m’ babies!”

“Where?” Dylan demanded, shaking the woman.

She told him, and without a thought for himself, he dove into the house and disappeared.

“Nooooooo!!!!!!” Siobhan screamed, hurling herself forward. “Dylan!!!”

Fionn grabbed her out of nowhere. Mindlessly, she fought him trying to wrench out of his arms and go after Dylan.

“Damn it, imp, stop it!” he yelled at her. “Mum, help me!”

Rose was at his side immediately, pinning Siobhan’s arms behind her as she twisted and strained and sobbed. Between the two of them, they wrestled her to the ground. “Slap her, Fionn!” Rose ordered.

“But—”

“Do it!” she hissed. “Hard!”
Mumbling an apology to his sister, he slapped the side of her face with all his might. Siobhan tensed for a moment and then calmed, no longer struggling. The three of them silently watched where Dylan had disappeared, praying he would come out again.

Agonizing seconds ticked by, each seeming like an eternity. Siobhan was shaking violently. “Come back, Dylan,” she whimpered.

After what seemed like years, they made out movement from within the house. Two soot covered and slightly burned children emerged. The adults swept them up to safety. But Siobhan knew that the there were three Donnelly kids that had been in the house. There was still one in there. She also knew Dylan wouldn’t give up until he’d gotten the last child out of there.

Again, they waited. Seconds. Then minutes. Still nothing. Siobhan held her breath, not willing to believe.

“I’m going after him,” she heard her father announce. She saw him start towards the building. And saw the roof and walls of the building cave in and collapse. Seamus hit the ground to avoid the rush of heat and ash.

Rose made a choking sound. Seamus rushed over to his wife and drew her into his arms, tears running down his dirty cheeks and making black streaks. Around Siobhan, every one was crying or grieving in some way. All she could do was stare at the burning heap that had once been a house.

“He can’t be…” she whispered. Fionn pulled her into his arms. “He’s not…he’s okay,” she insisted. “He’ll be alright.”

Fionn shook his head. “Imp…he’s gone.”

“No!” she yelled. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“Siobhan, Dylan’s dead!” he screamed at her. He’d never raised his voice to her before, not like that. She looked at him dumbly as it sunk in. The older boy’s face was twisted in pain in a way that must have mirrored her own. “He’s dead, imp,” Fionn choked again, tears spilling over.

Siobhan felt as though she’d been stabbed through the heart. She threw her arms around her brother and began to sob softly. He held her tightly as together they wept, clutching each other desperately. At some point, their mother and father came over to hold them as well, but they hardly noticed. As Siobhan’s grief overwhelmed her, she begged God to bring Dylan back to her, to take her instead. Her only answer was the crackling of wood as it burned, sending sparks shooting into the sky as her brother’s funeral pyre.

The entire family, close to the entire village, was devastated. Rose and Seamus were hit hardest, of course. They’d never imagined having to bury their own child, much less their firstborn son. It was small consolation that he’d died saving lives. Siobhan went into a sort of isolation. She spoke, ate, studied and slept mechanically. She might have died, but she knew that her parents could bear no more heartache. She never smiled, never went out.

Only Fionn could get any kind of response out of her, or at least anything that was more than monosyllabic. Her heart was quite thoroughly broken. She grieved like that for six months. Then one day she simply…snapped out of it and returned to her normal life as best as she could. She still cried herself to sleep most nights, a shadow still passed over her face at any reminder of Dylan, and she was still haunted by nightmares every time she went to sleep. She was a little more sober, a little more dedicated, and passionate. She seemed older, wiser, and far too world weary for her age.

Close to a year passed. Late summer was upon them, and Siobhan was as close to carefree as she ever got these days. Rose had gone up to Belfast to visit her sister, and taken Aisling with her, and Muirinn and Cousin Myra had taken the rest of the kids camping for three days. Siobhan had twisted her ankle playing football with Tiernan, so she’d had to stay behind.

She’d wanted to go camping, but she relished the idea of having the usually overcrowded house empty and all to herself. Well, not completely. Her father was still there, but as one of seven—six, now, she thought sadly, trying not to remember—kids, spending time alone with one of your parents was a rarity.

Siobhan limped into her father workroom. Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, highlighting the dust that hung in the air. The sawdust was spongy under her feet, and the place smelled of wood. It was a healthy smell, she thought. A good, clean smell.

Seamus smiled at her as she took a seat on one of his workbenches. He was a quiet, gentle, man of few words. He was a loving husband and an affectionate father, always tender and sensitive. He put an almost equal amount of love into his carpentry. His woodworking was unrivaled in five counties.

Siobhan loved to watch him work, watch him mold and shape and shave the wood to his will, ever so gently. She watched him silently for ten minutes before asking, “What are ye making?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” he said after a minute, rubbing his short silver beard thoughtfully. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped, gray hair, looking thoughtfully at the piece of cedar he was working. “What do ye think it should be, imp?”

Siobhan wrinkled her nose. “A box,” she said at last.

“How big?”

Siobhan held her hands about fifteen centimeters apart. “Like that.”

Seamus nodded. “As my lady says,” he said, mock bowing, and turned back to his work. His boxes were legendary. He carved them from a single block of wood, even the hinges. What’s more, he worked very quickly. He could produce a fine box in a little over an hour. Siobhan simply sat and watched him, fascinated. She loved the way the wood smelled, the way the shavings fell to the floor. The way her father seemed to coax what he wanted out of the wood. Instead of carving it seemed more like he was revealing the shape that was already inside.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. It was enough to just be together, in the peace and quiet which so rarely entered their bustling, overflowing home. For two hours, Siobhan sat and her father carved. She never got bored.

“There,” he said at last, shaving off one last piece. “For ye, imp.” He picked it up with loving hands and walked over and gave it to her. She took it in amazement. He had carved a rose out of top of the box, raised above the level of the wood. The rest of the box was soft and smooth and fragrant in her hands.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I love it.”

Seamus stroked his daughter flowing auburn hair with a callused hand. His gray-green eyes sparkled at her and she smiled a radiant smile at her dear father. Suddenly, his hand began to tremble. A look of worry crossed his face.

“Dad?” she asked, concerned, setting the box on the bench and getting up. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he assured her. “Maybe I’d better sit down.”

She nodded and started to help him sit. Instead, he clutched his chest and fell to the floor with a groan. “Dad!” she yelled, falling to her knees beside him.

He started to convulse, and she got that horrible feeling of dread inside her. She knew what was happening, and part of her knew that nothing she could do could stop it.

“Call…ambulance,” he wheezed.

Siobhan nodded, her eyes liquid pools of green. Reluctant to leave him even for a moment, she flew into the kitchen and dialed the emergency number from their global. A kind looking woman answered.

“My dad,” Siobhan said hurriedly. “He just collapsed. I think he’s having a heart attack. Please, help me.”

“Slow down,” the woman said in a voice that made her feel calmer. “Now, tell m’ where ye are.”

Siobhan did, trying not to let her mind dwell on all the things that could happen.

“Good. Now, I want ye t’ listen t’ me,” the woman said. “I want to you to get a blanket and pillow for your dad, and I want ye to give him some aspirin, okay? We’ll have someone there as soon as we can.”

Siobhan ran upstairs and got the items and then went back to the workshop. She put the pillow under his head, the blanket over him and coaxed him into swallowing the aspirin.

“Hold on, Daddy,” she said. “Help will be here soon, okay?”

He gave her a brave smile. “Siobhan, listen t’ me,” he said.

“No, do nae talk Daddy,” she said. “Just rest.”

He shook his head weakly. “No. Siobhan, I want ye t’ take care of your mother.”

“Do nae talk like that,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “Ye are going t’ be just fine.”

“No, I’m not,” he said and in that instant, she knew that it was true. It was a bad heart attack, and she knew just how far the ambulance had to go. “Now listen t’ me. Ye have t’ care for your mother and brothers and sister. I’m sorry I have t’ leave ye all. I did nae mean for this t’ happen. I love ye, imp, ye know that. Tell your mother…I’ll be watching out for her…”

“No, Daddy!” she cried, as the light went out of his eyes. She knew he was gone. “Daddy…” she sobbed again, throwing herself on him, weeping. The paramedics found her like that, half an hour later. The thirteen-year-old girl had her arms wrapped tightly around Seamus Beckett’s body, her head on his chest and tears running down her face.

Even once they had pried her away from him, Siobhan could not be persuaded to leave the house, even to stay with Tiernan. She insisted that she be the one to call her mother at her aunt’s house, allowing no one else to do it. Rose’s face went dead white with shock, but she did not cry in front of her daughter. She said she was leaving for home right a way, but the roads were closed and they both know she wouldn’t be able to get there until the next morning.

“Siobhan, ye can nae stay here by yourself,” Tiernan protested. “At least let me stay with ye.”

“No!” she said more sharply than she had intended. “Please. I’ll be fine…I need to be alone.”

Tiernan nodded, helpless to console his friend. “I’m sorry,” he said, hugging her and leaving very reluctantly. Siobhan was left alone in the house. It suddenly seemed very big and very empty.

She wanted nothing more than to simply curl up in a ball and cry forever and forever. But he father’s dying words echoed in her ears. She had to take of things, so that her mother wouldn’t have to worry about it. It wasn’t fair to her.

Numbly, she called all the friends and relatives she could think of and told them that Seamus was dead. It pounded a nail through her heart each time she said the words, but she knew it would have been even harder on her mother.

When she was done with that, she cleaned the house, top to bottom. It gave her an excuse not to think about it. It was dark by the time she was finished. She couldn’t remember when it had been this quiet. It wasn’t a good quietness, either. It was an empty, too-still, quietness that made her feel frightened and alone. She wished she could call Muirinn and tell her come home, but she hadn’t taken a global link with her.

Siobhan was tempted to cook, but she knew that neighbors would probably be bringing over more food than they could eat, anyway. There was nothing else she could do. She suddenly felt like a very small child, and she desperately needed her daddy.

She ran into the now-dark workshop and fumbled around until she found the box he’d made for her. It was on the bench where she had left it. She cradled it in her arms like a baby, and went upstairs to her parent’s room. In the closet, she found the huge wool sweater her mother had knitted for him last Christmas. She shrugged it on. It came down past her knees, but it smelled of him.

Exhausted and hurting, she crawled into her parents’ bed and wrapped herself up in the quilts, clutching the box like a lifeline. She cried quietly for a long time before sleep came to her. And yet another new nightmare was added to the ever-growing number.

When she woke the next morning, the sun was already high. It was probably about ten or so. She heard an engine in the yard. It had to be her mother. Quickly, she jumped out of the bed and made it up as well as she could. She put the box in her desk and ran downstairs, remembering just in time to pull off the sweater and throw it in the laundry bin.

“Mummy!” she cried, running outside. Rose caught her up and held her so tightly Siobhan thought she would burst. “I’m sorry!” she told her mother.

“No,” Rose said, tears nearing the surface. “It’s nae your fault, love. Ye did everything right.”

Siobhan helped her inside and sat her down at the table, looking for all the world like an adult, instead of the young teen she was. She fixed a pot of tea while Rose tried to compose herself. She set the steaming cup gently in front of her.

“Thank ye, love,” Rose said looking into the emerald eyes of her daughter and seeing someone who was suddenly much old than she should have had to be. “Sit down,” she said.

Siobhan did, wondering what would come next.

“Your father…” Rose said slowly, painfully. “Had a weak heart. It was hereditary. We knew something like this could happen at any time, but after a while I just stopped believing that it really would.”

“You…knew?” Siobhan repeated.

Rose nodded. “We didn’t tell ye kids, because we didn’t want ye t’ have t’ live with the burden of knowing that one day he might just…go. It was a miracle he made it this long. He wasn’t supposed to live past thirty, and I thanked God for every single day he lived past that.”

Siobhan wasn’t sure whether to be angry or understanding. It didn’t really matter anymore, she figured. Suddenly, the word ‘hereditary’ found something to connect with, and a horrible thought hit her. “Aisling,” she said, the single word speaking volumes.

Rose bit her lip and nodded sadly. “Yes,” she whispered. “Her heart is bad. The rest of ye have fine, strong hearts, but Aisling’s…the doctors say she probably won’t live to her twenties. They’re surprised she’s made it this long. If she’d been like ye, she never would have. ‘Twas lucky she’s naturally quiet and inactive.”

Siobhan sank back in her chair, stunned. “Does she know?” she managed.

Rose nodded. “She’s always known. We didn’t have to tell her. It was partially her decision not to tell the rest of ye. She said she didn’t want ye to feel sorry for her. Muirinn knows, of course. She was there, when I went t’ the hospital.”

“Isn’t there something that can be done?” Siobhan asked futilely. “Some operation…a transplant, maybe?”

“No,” her mother said softly. “It’s not just her heart, her veins and arteries are so frail that they just won’t hold stitches. They rip themselves apart. A transplant would kill her.”

Siobhan put her hand to her mouth to keep from bursting into tears. She had to be strong, she told herself. She had to be strong for her mother.

Rose, too was on the verge of tears, but still unwilling to cry in front of her daughter. Siobhan looked at her, and for the first time she seemed…tired. Old. She was forty-five, but she’d never shown it before. She’d always been girlish and gay, and even when she was being serious, she always seemed young and free spirited. That was gone now. She was a widow, and suddenly all the cares that had always rested lightly on her were painfully, palpably burdensome. It was then Siobhan realized just how iron strong her mother really was, to be able to live as she had for so long, knowing that any moment she might lose her husband or daughter, or any one of her other kids to terrorism, and still be able to go through life with joy and laughter.

For the present, however, Rose simply seemed utterly lost. Her husband of twenty-three years was gone. Siobhan knew that her mother would keep going, somehow, but right now she seemed almost broken.

“Well,” she said, getting up slowly, like in a trance. “I guess I’d better call some people…Tell them…”

Siobhan laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “I did it last night.”

Rose’s blue eyes went wide. “Ye… Everyone?”

“I think so, aye,” Siobhan said. “I did nae want ye t’ have t’ worry about it.”

Rose hugged her gratefully. “I think I’m going t’ go lie down, then,” she said quietly, starting wearily up the stairs.

“Mum,” Siobhan called after her. She stopped on the step. “He said…he said that he’ll be watching out for ye.”

Rose turned to look at Siobhan, tears glistening in her eyes. “I know,” she said softly, and rushed up the steps to the room that she now slept in alone and the bed that she no longer shared with the love of her life.

Muirinn and the others came home the next day, having no idea that anything had happened until they got there. Of all of them, Muirinn took it the worst, although Siobhan got the feeling that if she hadn’t had her family to care for, Rose would simply have died of a broken heart. As it was, she never cried except when she was alone, and never at all after the funeral.

Things changed radically after that. Muirinn moved to Belfast and started working, going to school at night and sending what she could back to help make ends meet. Fionn got odd jobs in the village and wasn’t around very much. Rose had to start teaching at the University again. It was a two-hour commute and it took a lot out of her, but she refused to uproot her kids and move.

Siobhan did indeed end up taking care of them all. She taught Niall and Oisin and Aisling when her mother couldn’t. She kept the house, and the vegetable garden, and ran all the errands. She even learned to pay the bills when Rose was too tired to mess with the accounts. She did her own schoolwork late at night, determined to keep her grades up. She put her mother to bed when she stumbled in after midnight, exhausted from teaching three classes in one day and driving two hundred miles. She made sure Fionn didn’t work himself to death out of his sense of duty at being the “man of the house” now.

In short, she grew up at thirteen. She never thought to resent it, never thought to mourn the loss of her childhood, she just did what needed to be done. In fact, a part of her thrived under the responsibility. She loved taking care of her younger brothers and sister. Being a mother was second nature to her, and now that Rose wasn’t around as much, she stepped into the role fairly easily. She patched up scrapes and answered questions and drove away nightmares and fed and bathed and hugged and kissed and loved her little siblings like they were her own children. She adored taking care of them, hungering, needing the role of parent that she had been given.

Only at night, when they were all asleep and the house was quiet, did she let herself cry, let herself think of her lost brother and the father she missed so much. Of all of them, only Fionn knew. Sometimes, when he wasn’t too tired, he would crawl into her bed and hold her as she cried. Sometimes he cried with her, and they would fall asleep in each others' arms as they had when they were little.

Three years flew by. They had saved up enough that Rose was able to stop working herself so hard, and some of Siobhan’s burdens were relieved. Rose had recovered her sense of peace, although she was never again the blithely girlish, light-hearted mother Siobhan remembered from when she was young. Life settled into a happy, less tiring rhythm.

For her part, Siobhan was starting to let herself believe that tragedy had finally passed her family by. She was finally able to consciously dream about having a husband and a future and family of her own. Maybe a career on the side, but most of all a family.

One day, while she was washing the dinner dishes, Niall surprised her with a bouquet of wildflowers. She smiled. He was the sweetest person she had ever known, and delighted in doing little things for people to brighten their lives. She often said he had the soul of a poet.

“Thank ye, Niall!” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss her younger brother on the cheek. “They’re beautiful.”

He grinned shyly at her. He was very quiet, and at fifteen was already driving the village girls wild, though he didn’t know it. That, of course, only made him more attractive. He had the same auburn hair as Siobhan, but had gotten Rose’s sky-blue eyes, like Dylan. Even after four years, her throat tightened at the thought of him. Niall’s personality was so like their father’s that sometimes it made her want to cry to look at him. She knew he reminded Mum of him, too.

“Where are ye off t’?” she asked, noting his backpack.

“Going t’ Belfast with Aideen,” he told her. The older girl was a good friend of his who was also desperately in love with him, though everyone knew it but him. “Going t’ visit Muirinn and the new art exhibit up there. Mum said it was okay. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Siobhan felt a brief wave of jealously. She hadn’t been anywhere further than Armagh in more than two years, and was getting a little restless. She pushed it aside. “Give Muirinn my love,” she said. “Have fun.”

He nodded, smiled, and ducked out the door. It was the last time she ever saw him. Muirinn appeared at the door the next morning, a dazed expression on her face. A hysterical Aideen was in tow. Rose knew the instant she saw them, and listened blankly as Aideen recounted the story.

They had driven to the city and taken in the art exhibit. They decided to walk to Muirinn’s place and got lost. It was getting dark. A group of teenagers had approached, and Niall had been worried and made Aideen hide until he could find out what they wanted. They’d been a little drunk and very aggressive. They’d called Niall a dirty Taig. When he’d protested that he wasn’t Catholic, wasn’t anything, they’d demanded that he sing “God Save the Queen” to prove his loyalty.

He hadn’t. Not out of pride, or out of some nationalist feeling. He just didn’t know the words.

“They beat him,” Aideen sobbed. “They beat him up and then they stabbed him. He didn’t have politics, he didn’t care about their bloody little war, he just didn’t know a song. And they killed him.”

She was overwhelmed at that point Siobhan found herself holding the girl and comforting her as she cried. Siobhan herself was too numb to cry. It was happening again. She had the most frightening feeling that Niall wouldn’t be the last brother she saw die in the near future.

She was right. Niall’s funeral was small and simple. Even after three days, she still hadn’t been able to cry. In contrast, all her mother had done for that time was cry. She had been almost totally incapacitated. During the service, Tiernan had leaned over and whispered, “Where’s Oisin? I would have thought he’d be here…”

A shiver ran down Siobhan’s spine and she knew. She pelted out of the church in the middle of the eulogy and ran towards home as fast as her lean legs would take her. It was five kilometers and she pushed herself until she thought her lungs would explode and both her feet break clean off. If she just ran fast enough, maybe she could get there in time.

She hit the door at full speed and ran upstairs into the attic room Oisin had shared with Niall. There was a piece of paper on his bed, a bed that had been made neatly for the first time that she could remember. Fear gripped her again.

“I’m sorry,” she read in horror. “But I just can’t take it anymore. I just don’t see the point to it. I love you all. I’m sorry.” At the bottom Oisin’s name was scrawled.

“No…” she whispered and dropped the note, running out of the suddenly suffocating room, wildly desperate to find him. She found him in the workroom, pale and dead, a peaceful, gristly smile on his face and bottle of pills in his hand.

Oisin had been the most independent of all the Beckett children, always off doing something by himself. He made friends easily and was popular with everyone. He looked like Rose, from his short built and freckles to his fair complexion and strawberry blond curls that hadn’t darkened like Fionn’s had. But he was his father’s son, more than any of the others. He alone had wanted to follow in Seamus’s steps and become a carpenter. He had spent much of his spare time carving, trying to reach his father’s skill level. Dylan had been his idol, he’d looked up to him almost more than any of them, even Siobhan.

And, finally, he and Niall had been as close as two brothers had ever been. Niall had been universally adored by all, especially his family, but Oisin alone had understood him. He’d remained a mystery even to his parents and closest friends, and even though he and Oisin had been polar opposites they had loved each other dearly. All the people Oisin had been specially close to were gone now.

The rest of the family, along with half the town, showed up about ten minutes later. Siobhan couldn’t face them. She ran upstairs without a word and locked herself in her room. She took her blue silken shawl out of the carved cedar box that had become its home and curled up in a fetal ball on her bed, hugging the shawl to herself.

Not long after there was a knock on her door. She barely heard it through her catatonia. Two minutes later the door swung open, after the sounds of the lock being clumsily jimmied. Siobhan didn’t look up. Fionn crossed the room to where she was curled. He was eighteen now, and about to go off to college, but his first thought was for her. He loved his sister with all his heart. They were still like twins.

“Siobhan?” he asked softly. No response. He lay down next to her on her bed, and curled himself protectively around her. “C’mon, imp, talk t’ me.”

Still nothing. Her emerald eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing.

“Imp, ye can’t do this. Ye have t’ talk about it.” Silence. He took a deep breath. “I’ll slap ye, imp, so help me God, I will! I will nae let ye do this.”

At last, she rolled over and looked at him. “I should have seen it coming, Fionn. I should have seen it.”

“No,” he said softly, holding her slim shoulders. “Ye can nae blame yourself, imp.”

“Aye, I can,” she said dully. “I knew him, I knew he was nae as independent as he pretended. I knew he wasn’t quite stable. I should have realized he couldn’t live without Niall, especially once Dad and Dylan were gone. I just did nae put it together fast enough.”

Fionn stroked her hair gently, his gray-green eyes looked sadly at his little sister. “Ye are no more t’ blame than th’ rest o’ us. None of us saw it coming, and we should have. But ye are not responsible for this, any more than Mum is, understand.

Siobhan nodded reluctantly, believing him only because she loved him too much to be able to doubt. “Why is this happening t’ us?” she sniffed. “What did we ever do t’ deserve this? Niall never hurt a soul…And Oisin and Father. Dylan was a hero. They helped people. And why did they die and I’m still alive?”

Fionn said nothing, only pulled her closer and let her sob out her grief for both her brothers on his chest, until once again she felt asleep and her nightmares claimed her. He set his jaw and a steely look came into his eyes. He brushed back his curly brown hair and kissed Siobhan’s cheek lightly, the pain so intense it was red hot within him, becoming indistinguishable from his anger. He waited three months before announcing he was joining the IRA.

“Outside, now,” Siobhan barked at him in the stunned silence that descended on the family room. Her tone was one that required instant obedience and often got it. Fionn followed her out into the yard, silent. Suddenly she whirled and, before he could think to get his guard up, delivered a dead-on punch to his jaw. He was expecting her to pistol-whip him, so to speak, but she was stronger than he’d thought, and he tumbled backwards to the ground.

He looked up at her, no longer seeing the baby sister he used to share a room with, nor the tomboy he had taught to fight, nor even the young teen who had clucked and worried over him when he was working twelve hour days, but instead seeing, for the first time, the beautiful young woman she had become. She was still slim, but no longer scrawny. Her fine-boned face was undeniably lovely, even from a brother’s point of view, and she actually had developed a figure, much to anyone’s surprise.

Her green eyes flashed in anger at him. “How could ye do this t’ Mum?” she demanded of him. “She’s already lost three sons an’ a husband, and now ye want t’ go off and get yourself killed!”

“I won’t get killed,” he said softly.

“Ye’ll still break her heart,” Siobhan shot back. “Ye know what she taught us, Fionn! We can nae free Ireland by killing Irish people, by killing each other. The IRA is a terrorist group, dedicated to bringing our country together if they have to kill everyone else t’ do it. How can ye want t’ be part of such a thing?”

“I don’t want t’ be part of it,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “But we’re at war, Siobhan, an’ we can nae deny it. It doesn’t matter if we fight or not, they’ll kill us anyway. They killed Niall, an’ he was totally apolitical, an’ just a kid. He had nothing t’ do with it. We might as well fight, so that one day our Ireland can be united.”

“They,” she said bitterly. “ ‘They” are us, Fionn! Ye start thinking of them as ‘they’ and stop thinking of them as people. Our people. Isn’t it better t’ be under British rule and still be one people, than t’ kill each other and be free?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But even if it is, no one else sees that, so nothing changes. I’m going out there t’ fight this war until it’s gone, for good.”

“An’ kill?” she asked angrily. “An’ put some other family through what we’ve gone through. Maybe put our family through it yet again. How can ye be so selfish? Niall died an’ ye think ye can go out and avenge him, not caring whether you destroy Mum or me or anyone else.”

“It’s not like that…” he started.

“Oh, really? How is it like, then? How is it like that suddenly ye are willing t’ kill our own people over politics?”

“Imp, I believe in this. I believe that we can free our country and then no one will ever have t’ die the way Niall died again,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Siobhan jerked away from him. She’d never done that before, ever. It hit him like a ton of bricks. “But in the meantime ye’ll happily kill ennaone who believes otherwise,” she spat. “T’ hell with ye, Fionn Beckett! Ye be damned, and the whole bloody IRA with ye!”

She turned and ran back to the house without a backward glance, to go comfort her mother and sister in the face of this shock. Rose was unutterably disappointed in Fionn’s choice, and the sadness in her eyes was almost more than he could bear.

She rebuked him so gently and tenderly that it was almost harder than Siobhan’s rejection and refusal to speak to him or even acknowledge his existence. When he left, two weeks later, Rose hugged him fiercely, Aisling cried a little, and Siobhan didn’t even look at him.

“Goodbye, imp,” he’d said, turning at the door. “I love ye.”

She’d turned away to hide the single tear flowing down her cheek. The next year passed agonizingly. Aisling had to go to the hospital several times, and Siobhan’s nightmares were filled with her fears for both Fionn and her dearest little sister. Muirinn came home to help out, and got a job in the village. Siobhan finished high school over the Internet and opted for taking college the same way, so that she didn’t have to leave her family.

Meanwhile, the peace talks the U.S. had been so stubbornly insisting upon holding disintegrated entirely after countless unsuccessful cease-fires, failed treaties, and false hopes. The United States basically gave up and went home, finally realizing that even they couldn’t solve everyone else’s problems. Soon after, England brought Northern Ireland back under direct control of the British crown. People revolted, the conflict escalated, and the British sent in even more troops. It became so brutal that United Nations even tried to get involved, but the British and Irish alike told them that it was their fight alone and, unless the UN was willing to help them crush the other side entirely, they and their peace corps could just go bugger off.

Siobhan lived in a state of perpetual fear. Fear that she would come home one day and find that Fionn was gone, that Aisling had died, or that her mother simply couldn’t take the strain anymore. In the past few years, Rose’s hair had gone from warm strawberry blond to almost completely silver. Worry lines creased her face. Her blue eyes rarely sparkled, and she’d put on weight that ill-fitted her small frame. It was no longer a matter of her heart being broken, but more what pain the pieces would put her through next.

For a whole year, they waited in dreadful anticipation for the news they all knew would come, as it always did. It was winter now, though no snow was on ground. The Makham’s were visiting, as they often did. Mr. and Mrs. Makham both were old friends with Rose, they’d known each other since childhood. Tiernan’s sister, Elizabeth, was a little younger than Aisling, but they got along well. There was a fire in the fireplace and Tiernan and Siobhan were sitting quietly on the couch, listen as their parents talked in subdued tones.

Suddenly, the global in the kitchen rang. Siobhan stiffened. Rose got up to get it. A stifled sob was heard from the kitchen, and she came back in, her jaw set against the now-familiar pain of the loss of a child. Tiernan grabbed Siobhan’s hand.

“Fionn…” Rose choked out. It was all she had to say. Mr. and Mrs. Makham went over to her and tried to comfort her from a pain that could not be eased.

Siobhan let out a scream of grief that was more animal than human. It was an absolutely chilling sound of almost utter madness. She tore herself from her friend’s grip and ran out the door into the night.

Tiernan’s brown eyes went wide as saucers. Fionn had been a close friend to him, as well, and it took him a moment to get through his own feelings enough realize the impact his death would have on Siobhan.

“My, God, she’s going t’ kill herself!” he yelled, off the couch and out the door before the words could even register with the adults. He had a pretty good idea where she was headed, and only prayed he could get there in time. Siobhan was as fleet of foot in the woods as the fastest deer; in her grief maddened state she wouldn’t check her speed at all.

He let his instinct and memory for the trail guide him, concentrating only on going as quickly as he could. When he reached, Loch Neagh, the dark waters were illuminated brightly by the full moon. He made out a small figure on the rocks. Not the diving area of the swimming hole, but on the high cliffs above the lake.

“Siobhan, no!” he called, but she was beyond all hearing. Cursing loudly and creatively, he scrambled up the hill after her, thinking he might still be able to stop her. But so insane with the pain was she that she didn’t even pause for a moment at the edge. She simply, blindly, threw herself off the cliff and into the waters below. She hit the water flat, stunning her into semi-consciousness.

Tiernan reached the edge fifteen seconds later. He gulped at the fall. He was an experienced diver, but even he was queasy about quite this high. With only a little trepidation, he dove in after his friend, praying that the water beneath him was deep enough. It was, though the fall and force of the water stole the breath from his lungs. With powerful kicks, he propelled himself to the surface to gasp for air before diving back down to grab Siobhan as she slipped beneath the surface. She was light and he was strong, but the freezing water sapped his energy and every move was an effort.

He pushed Siobhan up into the air and heard her take an involuntary breath. She was fully awake now, and she began to fight him. “Let me die, let me die, let me die,” she cried over and over again, pummeling him wildly

His head went under and he let go of her long enough to right himself and take another breath before hauling her again to the surface and wrapping his arms around her, pinning her own arms to her sides, and kicking rapidly to keep them afloat.

“Bloody hell, girl, ye’ll drown us both!” he sputtered. “Ye may want t’ die but I certainly do not, and I do nae have any intention of letting you kill yourself.”

Finally, she stopped struggling, going limp in his arms. He thrust his hand under her arms and clasped them under her breasts, so that he could float on his back and kick with his feet. Siobhan did little to help. It took every ounce of strength in him to get them to shore and drag them up onto the bank. They lay there panting and shivering for long moments, Siobhan sobbing quietly but insistently in his arms.

“Shh…” Tiernan soothed, not sure what to do. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she sniffled. “Fionn’s dead…”

“I know,” he said softly, stroking her sopping wet hair. She was cold, too cold. But then, so was he.

“I don’t want t’ live,” she moaned. “I can’t live without him. Let me die…”

“Ye know I can nae do that, dear heart,” he murmured, very much aware of the curve of her body next to his. He took her by the shoulders. “C’mon, sit up,” he said, helping her up.

“I never said goodbye,” she told him. “I was too angry at him an’ now he’s dead and he died thinking I hated him.”

“No, he didn’t,” Tiernan said, wiping her tears with the soaked corner of his sleeve. “He knew ye loved him, he knew ye were just mad at him.”

Her beautiful, gem like eyes looked up at him. He had never seen her so completely and utter lost. “What do I without him?”

He searched for some reassurance to give her but found none. “I guess ye just have t’ keep going,” he said. “He would nae have wanted t’ see ye dead because o’ him, would he?”

“No,” she said reluctantly.

“In fact, it would have killed him t’ see ye like this, would it nae have?” he prodded.

“Aye,” she said, calming a bit.

“Then we’ll have no more talk o’ killing yourself, then?” he said. “I do nae fancy going swimming in the loch again in th’ dead o’ winter. Besides…” His throat tightened. “I could nae bear t’ lose ye.”

She looked at him with new eyes, but was too sad and too tired to explore it further just then. “Take me home, Tiernan?” she whispered.

“Of course,” he said, gathering her light body into his arms, as she seemed too weak to walk. His instincts were correct as she fainted almost immediately. He carried her the two kilometers back to the Beckett house. Rose had been literally sick with worry.

In some ways, it was a good thing that Siobhan was in such a bad way from her suicide attempt. It gave Rose someone to worry over, a child to care for, which she desperately needed. She swept Siobhan into a hot bath, dried her, and tucked her into bed, and then went downstairs to cook massive amounts of chicken soup. Tiernan found himself equally swept up in her mother-hennishness and didn’t have enough energy to resist. He was tucked away in Aisling’s old bed, since he insisted he didn’t want to leave Siobhan.

The Makhams were grateful for Rose’s care of their boy, and allowed him to stay at the Becketts’ until after he was fully recovered, since they knew it would help their friend to have a son to mother, however temporarily. Tiernan was lucky; he only caught a case of the sniffles from the misadventure. But Siobhan came down with a bad cold and a fever that threw her into three days of nightmare-filled delirium.

He stayed by her bedside until the fever broke, and then after, coaxing her to eat some broth and being there for her when grief overtook her.

“Ye are a good friend, Tiernan,” she said, once she was more recovered but still on forced rest.

He half smiled. “Is that all?” he asked quietly.

Siobhan had been in the middle of a sip of water and choked. She coughed, set the glass on the table, and wiped her mouth. “Say again?” she inquired politely.

“Is a friend all I am t’ ye, Siobhan?” he asked again.

She lowered her eyes thoughtfully. “No,” she whispered surprising herself. She looked up at him, her eyes shining and the first smile he’d seen in months from her upon her lips.

Greatly daring, he leaned down and kissed her quickly, the merest brushing of their lips. Siobhan blushed prettily. It was good to see color in her cheeks again.

“Ahem,” came an amused voice from the doorway. They turned to see Rose standing there, an indecipherable expression on her face. But her blue eyes were twinkling.

Siobhan’s blush deepened from a pale pink to a brilliant scarlet, running all the way down her long neck. Tiernan colored a little as well, but maintained his composure. He nodded respectfully.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckett,” he said mannerly. “I was just going t’ go home for supper.”

“G’day, Tiernan,” she said, smiling and stepping aside to let him pass.

Mother and daughter looked at each other for a few seconds until Siobhan burst out giggling. Rose crossed the room and joined in the laughter. “I always told ye he was a fine young man, I do nae know why ye did nae listen t’ me until now.”

Siobhan blushed yet again, and yawned.

“Get some rest, love,” Rose said, tucking the covers around her almost-grown daughter like she was a little girl again.

“Mum, is it…wrong t’ be happy right now?” she asked, settling herself on the pillows.

“Oh no, dearest,” Rose said, stroking her hair. “It’s not wrong at all. It’s very right, Fionn would want it. It’s just…hard.”

“Mmm…” was all the reply she got from Siobhan, who was already well on her way to sleep. Rose smiled a little sadly at her, closed the curtains, and left.

Siobhan healed rapidly after that, and returned to her life with a tenacity that surprised everyone except those who knew her closely. Tiernan and Siobhan transitioned from friends to lovers with an effortless grace that few relationships ever achieved. Rose quietly approved. She and Seamus had begun seeing each other when she was just eighteen, and Siobhan was nearly that. It was good to see her happy again, see her smiling as she did housework, or humming while she studied, good to see her rush off to meet him when she thought no one was looking.

For Siobhan’s part, she felt like a whole person again for the first time in years. At times she felt guilt at being alive, at having a real life when her brothers were dead. But Tiernan had told her over and over again that being happy was the best way to remember those she loved, and who had loved her, and she had begun to really believe him.

As nice as life seemed, however, Siobhan’s sense of duty didn’t allow her to simply sit back while her country self-destructed. She began to chafe at living at home, and studying in the relative safety of the tiny tourist village. She knew what she had to do, but she wasn’t sure how to make that clear to the people closest to her without hurting them.

Sitting crossed legged on her bed, physics book spread on her lap and her mind a thousand miles away, Siobhan’s brow wrinkled in worried thought. Her head began to ache dully. She sighed and closed the book with a definitive thump. She pushed her hair back and fumbled in her nightstand for an elastic tie. She found one, and got up, working the messy auburn mass into a loose French braid as she walked distractedly downstairs.

It was a beautiful day, and sun was pouring into the brightly painted kitchen through the deep-set windows. She grabbed the bottle of aspirin and dry-swallowed two of them, grimacing at the taste. She sighed again, restless, and walked over to the fridge to stare at its contents for a long moment. Nothing appealed to her. Finally she took out the white bread, ham, cheese, and mayo and began determinedly to make a sandwich.

The global on the counter beeped and she jumped. She glanced at the screen. She had email. Wiping her hands, she hit the display button. It was from Tiernan. Her worries melted away and she smiled, the smile lighting up her face and eyes. She spared only a second to turn off the computer before running upstairs to change.

She shucked off her jeans and faded tee, and chose a calf-length, pleated cream skirt that flattered her figure nicely and scooped necked shirt of pale green with three-quarter sleeves. It accentuated her elegant neck and delicate collarbone. Checking to make sure her hair was in reasonable order, she flew back down the stairs, pausing only at the door to pull on her sandals.

She headed down a well-worn path through the woods, moving quickly and lightly along. She had a natural, easy combination of grace, strength, and utter confidence that made her completely alluring. She knew men found her fascinating, and she was generally amused by it. She never flirted to get her way, but she knew how to toy with them when she wanted to. It was sport. She enjoyed playing huntress. Tiernan had been fortunate enough never to have been on the receiving end of her game, as she had known him far too long for that.

She turned the corner of the path and stepped off it, pushing past a tangle of branches to emerge into a tiny, flowered clearing that she and Tiernan had laughingly named the Bower. He was already waiting for her in the little trysting spot. He grinned when he saw her and rushed over to wrap his arms around her.

“Ye look…enchanting, as always,” he said kissing her.

She smiled, a little flirtatiously, at him. She felt very good to hold, her body firm and wiry, but still somehow fine, petite, and sculpted, like some ancient Irish goddess. Her beauty was strong and fiery and radiant, occasionally overwhelming, even to someone who had seen her at her weakest and most vulnerable.

“I,” he said, taking her smooth hands and pulling her over to a bench like rock, “Have something I want t’ talk to ye about.”

“So I gathered from your note,” she said wryly, an eyebrow raised and a suggestive, half-impish, half-coy, smile on her face.

He blushed a little and she laughed musically. “Well, there is that,” he admitted, “but there’s something else.”

She waited, her mood still light but suddenly serious.

“Siobhan,” he began, taking a deep breath. “I want t’ get married. T’ ye. Us. I want us t’ get married.” It came out all in a rush.

Siobhan’s face darkened and she slipped out of his grasp and walked away, her back to him. “Oh, Tiernan,” she whispered, the heaviness of earlier rushing back on her.

He came up behind her and put his hands to her shoulders. “I love ye. I’m in love with ye. We could be happy together.”

She turned to face him. His look was so hopeful, so eager, it almost hurt. His pale hair fell across his forehead in a roguish manner, and his frank brown eyes gazed almost worshipfully at her. His freckles hadn’t faded with adulthood as hers had, and he still had a bit of a baby-face which was entirely endearing.

“We can have a house in the village,” he continued. “And have six kids, or a dozen, or how ever many it is ye want.”

“Ten,” she said softly.

“Ten, then,” he agreed. “And we would be so happy.”

She smiled a sad, odd, little smile at him. “Yes, we would,” she agreed in a strange tone. “But I’m afraid it’s just not that simple.”

He face fell, but he clung to the hope. “What d’ ye mean? Of course it is. What’s wrong? Whatever it is, I promise we can work it out.”

She laughed humorlessly, putting her hands on his muscular upper arms. “I wish it were that easy, Tier.”

“It can be,” he told her.

She shook her head, her heart heavy. “Just listen t’ me. I love my Ireland, Tier. Ye know that. And it hurts me so much t’ see it like this, t’ see my people killing each other. No, do nae say anything, I know ye feel strongly about this, too, but ‘tis different for me. I have t’ see my land free, or die trying. I have t’ devote everything I am t’ making sure the children of Ireland will grow up in a place where they don’t have t’ be afraid that every sudden sound is a gunshot, or worry that their father’s been shot when he doesn’t come home from work on time. Before I can have my own children, my own life, I have to know that they’re going t’ be born into a place where they can be happy and free and proud. D’ ye understand that?”

Tiernan closed his eyes and opened them again. “Yes and no,” he said. “I don’t know what it’s like to feel that way, I guess, but I do understand that ye do and that what I might have t’ say won’t mean ennathing. Ye always were remarkably pigheaded.”

She smiled. “What ye say does mean a lot t’ me,” she told him.

“But it won’t stop ye from doing what ye were going t’.”

“No, it won’t,” she said, setting her jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“Do nae be,” he said, stroking her hair and neck. “It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with ye.”

“I’m going t’ join the Belfast militia,” she said, leaning into his caress. “In a month. It’s the only way.”

TO BE CONTINUED…