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“I know.”

I nod once. “I will try.”

Mannie says nothing to that.

He only inclines his head, as though he knows that for a man like me, try may be the most honest vow I have to give.

I leave him there with the strange, steady peace of a man who has at last found the weight he was born to bear.

All those months ago, in the dead of night, I had made a vow in haste and bound my life to the Emerald Isle. That ought to have felt like madness.

The thought halts me where I stand.

Because there, beneath the dread of that night, something bright had already begun to catch fire in me—hope, and will, and purpose, and the first hard-earned peace I didn’t know was coming.

And it began there, in the dark, as though the land itself had struck flint to my soul—and I’ll be damned if I let that spark die with me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ROBERT

Dawn has come grey and mean over the cliffs, and the sea beyond the windows looks no kinder than it did in the dark.

We’re to leave within the hour.

That truth seems to have settled over the household in a way even last night’s oath has not. The oath is a thing so large it feels unreal. Leaving is different. Leaving has practical meaning.

Outside, the women are trying not to cry as they ready the horses and steal what last touches and hidden kisses they can; the men, for all their pride, are faring no better. I linger upstairs, giving them what little privacy the morning allows and delaying my own goodbyes as long as I can.

As I make my way to the front of the castle, I have the strange, unwelcome thought that I may never again know this place in quite the same way.

I find Taskill and Maeve standing in the hall as I descend the stairs. He has that grave, weathered steadiness about him, one hand resting on the banister. She stands beside him, eyes red-rimmed despite the composure she is plainly fighting to keep.

Through the open door, I can see James is doing a poor job of pretending he’s far from coming undone. I have seen men face gunfire with calmer expressions.

Ellen has both hands fisted in the front of his coat. He bends to whisper something to her, and whatever it is has her letting out a choked sob.

On the far side of the room, Alex has Róisín in his arms. Their eyes are closed, and her face is pressed hard against his chest. One of his hands is at the back of her neck, the other spread between her shoulder blades to hold her tightly to him.

So what sat between them, at least, is no longer left unsaid. Cruel timing for it.

Maeve hears me on the steps and comes at once. She says my name, then seems to think better of whatever she intended after that, and only takes my face in both hands for the briefest moment.

“Bring them back to us,” she says.

The answer catches in me before it can find proper shape. “I mean to.”

Taskill steps forward next and clasps my forearm. He says nothing grand, which is precisely why I’m grateful. His grip is hard and brief and full of trust I’m not certain I deserve.

Mannie and Amelia are beside the window, watching all of this with a sorrowful stillness.

I look for Charlotte without meaning to, not wanting to leave without confronting the truth of what happened between us.

At first I expect to find her half-hidden near the back, arms folded, saying nothing while taking in everything.

I slip away and go to look for her myself, but come up short.

One of the kitchen maids tells me she has not seen Charlotte in two days.