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The words reach inside me like a verdict carried on the wind. I can almost see them—ink sinking into the page, the final severing of what little future my father once imagined for me inside those walls.
Alex’s mouth twists as he regales me with the story. “I think he hated not having you there to parade about, but it suited him in the end. It’s easier to play hangman and scribe when no one’s there to challenge the sentence.”
“Aye. They didnae bother to pretend otherwise,” James grumbles.
“Grand,” I say. “If they mean to write anything honest about me, wilfully disobedient is as good a place to start as any.”
The visitation runs for three days. Nineteen names left in the books by the time the visitation ends. Nineteen students driven out in one sweep. Clare wants the college clean of anything that smells like a freer future.
Clare questioned everyone from the provost down to the porters, squeezing out every rumour, every name, every hint of sympathy for the wrong cause.
So that’s the official story they’ll send to our families.
I’m nothing more than a note in the margin and a line in a list, expelled with eighteen others, remembered as stubborn, dangerous, and unrepentant.
In truth, they’re not wrong about that last part.
We’re three grown men, still packed into my parents’ house, taking up space at the table, drawing too many glances from neighbours who know exactly who my brother is and why soldiers came for him. My mother’s patience is kind but fraying; my father’s silence has turned heavy. Whatever welcome this place once held for us has long since soured, so it’s high time to follow James’s plan and leave for his family’s home in Keiss.
Whatever I was when I first walked through Trinity’s gates—a boy studying history and chemistry, convinced he could wield knowledge and patience in the service of justice—I’m something else now. I’ve seen enough of how power behaves when it’s frightened. Enough of how eager some men are to betray their own people for a pat on the head.
Let them write wilfully disobedient beside my name. Let Clare enjoy the pleasure of striking me from his precious rolls.
In the end, all he’s done is set me free to become exactly what he fears.
PART II
CHAPTER THREE
JAMES
Saturday, 28 April 1798
Keiss, Scotland
The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara
We’re standing in the centre of the room like three lads awaiting the gallows. My boots are still caked in dust from the road, and my stomach hasn’t stopped its slow turn since we crossed the threshold. Robert keeps shifting his weight, Alex clasps his hands behind his back like he’s trying to look unbothered, and I fight the urge to sway where I stand as my pulse thumps loudly in my ears.
Da—Taskill Sinclair—is a giant of a man, taller than me by half a head and broad enough to blot out the fire behind him. Years of soldiering have carved him into something that looks built for war more than for family life.
“Out o’ Trinity? The three o’ ye?” He paces once across the hearth, boots striking the stone, then comes to drop into his chair with a force that makes the legs groan.
His fists crack against the chair’s arm. Loud enough, I feel it in my ribs. “Do ye ken what shame ye’ve dragged home, lad?”
I open my mouth, but before the next blast can leave him, Ma—Maeve Sinclair—reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. She looks tiny beside him, barely reaching the top of his chest while standing, but I’ve seen her stand as mighty as him when she chooses. And Da, fearsome as he is, softens only for her. When she speaks, he listens to every word. He always has. Watching him soften for her is the one thing that reminds me there’s kindness under all that iron.
“Calm yerself, husband. Let the lads speak afore ya hang ‘em with yer words.”
He freezes as if she’s pulled the reins on him. Then he eases back into the chair, though his jaw keeps grinding, steady as a mill wheel.
Ma folds her arms and looks at us—sharp eyes, amiable face. “I think we owe it to ‘em to explain themselves. Right, ya great brute?”
Da only grunts, not phased at all by her remark.
She turns her head then, fixing him with that look that’s never missed its mark. “Aye, a chuisle, there’ll be a damn good reason they’re standin’ here and not in their classes.”
He turns his head to meet her eyes, and her smile sweetens. “Bí go maith, a stór, agus beidh cúiteamh milis agat.”
