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Róisín looks up at him, eyes bright and wrecked.

“I might not live there anymore,” she whispers, “but I’m a Dubliner forever.”

Alex’s face softens, and he gives a small nod.

“Aye,” he says softly, tipping his head, “that’s what makes you so tough and scary.”

A shaky breath slips out of her—almost a laugh.

“Only you could make a joke at a time like this.” She gives his arm a light, playful swat.

His smile fades into something gentler. “Had to try. I hate seeing tears in your eyes, Rosie,” he admits.

Then he steps in and pulls her to him, arms around her like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He presses a quick, familiar kiss to the top of her head and keeps her there.

“I’m serious, though,” he says, gentler now. “Your tenacity is a true talent.”

Her shoulders ease. She lets out a breath against his chest.

It still surprises me how quickly those two have become friends. How easy it can be, sometimes, for a friendship to take root in late-night talks and quiet little jabs traded at the worst possible moments, like laughter and joy hold the world together.

I suppose it should make sense. They’re both the sort who carry their light with them, even when the room is trying its best to go dark.

I swallow and force my eyes down to the page in my hands. The print swims, then sharpens.

And there it is, triumphant in a way that turns my blood to boiling:

“We have the satisfaction to announce that the disturbances which broke out on the night of the three-and-twentieth were promptly suppressed; and that His Majesty’s troops, acting with their usual spirit and steadiness, have restored tranquillity with little loss to themselves.”

Ellen’s voice cuts in from the door before I can draw another breath. “Aye, well, they’re bloody pleased with themselves, aren’t they?”

I keep my eyes on the page and push on:

“Accounts from several counties in Ireland confirm that a dangerous and premeditated rising⁠—”

Robert cuts me off with a short, bitter laugh.

“Premeditated,” he repeats, like the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He steps close enough I can feel the heat of his anger and jabs one finger against the line.

“Same words they used in March when they took my brother. Premeditated. As if they can tighten a noose right around your neck and act offended when you thrash for breath.”

He taps it again, as if he’s driving the point through the paper.

“That’s how they mean to brand it,” he says. “Forget the injustice. Forget the hunger. Forget the raids. Just this—as if Ireland struck first with an unprovoked crime, and the Crown’s some innocent victim.”

His mouth twists.

“As if these men woke one morning and turned criminal for sport, and demanding your rights be returned is a sin.”

“But why?” Alex asks, voice rougher than usual. Not challenging. Trying to make sense of it. “Before we were put out of Trinity, all we ever heard was that they meant to wait for France. That there wasn’t sense in moving until there were arms enough to match the King’s men. So why go anyway? Why push forward if the support never came?”

Robert presses his fingers into his eyes before throwing out his hands.

“I don’t know that they chose it clean,” he says. “My guess is that they had to before the plan was ready. You can’t face musket and cavalry with prayers and good intentions.”

He drags in a breath through his nose, too sharp to be calm.

“And now the Crown will take the planning, the coordination, the discipline, the one thing that might have given them a chance, and twist it into proof they deserve the gallows. My brother’s one of the lucky ones. These men… they won’t be so lucky.”