Sully got there first, lifting the old man under the arms. I grabbed the horse’s reins and lashed it to the fence, then sprinted back to help Sully half-carry, half-drag Father Declan into the kitchen.
He reeked of blood, holy oil, and something bitter—fear or adrenaline or both. He tried to talk, but I cut him off. “Sit. Let me see.” I pressed him into Da’s chair and ran my hand up the outside of his leg. His cassock was torn to ribbons and soaked through with blood, fresh and sticky at the seam of his thigh.
“English?” Sully asked.
Declan nodded, face gone gray. “Patrol at the crossroads. They’re rounding up anyone with a rebel son, anyone with aname they don’t like. I tried to warn the Kellys. They caught me on the way back.” He tried to smile. “Missed the vein, at least.”
Sully found the whiskey on the shelf and poured a half-glass. He held it out to the priest, but Declan waved it off. “Save it for the pain.”
I looked at Sully. “Go to the root cellar, right side. Clean cloth and the green bottle.” He didn’t need to be told twice.
I slit the cassock with a paring knife, rolled back the wool and linen. The wound was ugly, a chunk gouged out just above the knee. Not deep, but it bled like a stuck pig. I bit my tongue and pressed the cloth to the hole.
Father Declan hissed. “You always did have a rough touch, Catherine.”
I grinned. “You always did bleed easy.”
He glanced at my hands, the blood on my apron, then at Sully, who hovered with the green bottle. “Rub it in,” I told Sully, and he did, steady as a surgeon, even when the priest bit down on his own fist to keep from crying out.
When the blood slowed, I packed the wound with mashed comfrey and bound it tight with linen.
All the while, Declan stared at Sully—really stared, the way only a priest or a butcher can, trying to see what’s inside. When I finished tying the knot, Declan asked, “Where’s the rest of you, O’Toole?”
Sully hesitated. “Rest of me?”
Declan made a soft, humorless noise. “You were never a liar, son. Not even as a boy. But you’re not the man I buried, either. You look older. Harder. And your clothes… where did you get those?”
I waited, heart slamming around in my chest.
Sully set the bottle down, slow. “It’s a long story, Father.”
Declan’s smile flickered, a ghost. “Try me.”
Sully looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded. If we couldn’t trust the priest, we were truly alone.
Sully flexed his hand, watched the way the firelight lit the green tattoo. “I don’t belong here,” he said, flat and simple. “Not in this time. I came from far off. And when I woke, all I wanted was to see her again.” He nodded at me.
Declan listened, face stone. “I’ve heard tales,” he said after a minute. “Of men lost in bogs, found decades later, unchanged. Of women who vanished and returned old and wise. The world is thick with ghosts, O’Toole. But you’re no ghost, are you?”
Sully shook his head. “No, Father.”
Declan let out a long breath. “Then we won’t treat you like one.” He tried to cross himself, but his hand shook too badly, so he just bowed his head. “The English will be here soon. They’re not just looking for rebels. They’re looking for magic. Witches, changelings. Anything they can blame for the war.”
I glanced at Sully, fear rising in my throat. “What do we do?”
Declan’s eyes gleamed. “You run. As fast and as far as you can. Tonight, if you’re able. And don’t stop for anyone, not even God himself.”
He caught Sully’s hand, held it in a grip that belied his frailty. “Take care of her,” he said. “I mean it.”
Sully nodded. “I promise.”
Declan slumped in the chair, the fight going out of him. “Hide me in the hay loft, Catherine. If they come, let them see you grieving over my dead body. Lie if you must. God will forgive both of you.”
I fetched another blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “You’ll bleed out if you don’t keep still, Father.”
He gave me a look, half-amusement, half-awe. “You always were stubborn.”
I shrugged. “And you always were a fool for showing up at the worst time.”
