What the Wind Knows(48)

I didn’t. Not really. But I remained quiet, wrapping Eoin’s book in brown paper and tying it securely with a long piece of twine.

“What did you think of Father Darby’s announcement this morning?” Thomas asked, his tone perfectly measured. I knew he wasn’t talking about the announcement that had caused every head to turn and neck to crane toward me. I’d kept my eyes focused on my lap when Father Darby had welcomed me home as Thomas had asked him to do. Eoin had wiggled and waved beside me, enjoying the attention, and Brigid, sitting on his other side, had pinched his leg sharply, reining him in. I’d glared up at her, angered by the nasty welt she’d raised on his leg. Her cheeks had been bright with embarrassment, her jaw tight, and my anger had fizzled into despair. Brigid was suffering. Through the announcement, her eyes had never strayed from the stained-glass depiction of the crucifixion, but her discomfort was as great as my own. She’d relaxed slightly when Father Darby had moved on to political matters and captured the congregation’s attention with the news of a truce that had been brokered between the newly formed Dáil, Ireland’s unrecognized parliament, and the British government.

“My dear brothers and sisters, word has spread that tomorrow, July 11, Eamon de Valera, president of the Irish Republic and the Dáil éireann, and Lloyd George, prime minister of England, will sign a truce between our two countries, ending these long years of violence and ushering in a period of peace and negotiation. Let us pray for our leaders and for our countrymen, that order can be maintained and freedom in Ireland can finally be achieved.”

Cries and exclamations rang out, and for a moment Father Darby was silent, letting the news settle on his jubilant flock. I peeked up at Thomas, praying he’d forgotten my prediction. He was staring down at me, his face carefully blank, his pale eyes shuttered.

I held his gaze for a heartbeat, then looked away, breathless and repentant. I had no idea how I was going to explain myself.

He’d said nothing about it after Mass. Nothing at dinner, discussing the news benignly with Brigid and later with several men who stopped by to speak with him. They’d argued in the parlor about what the truce really meant, about Partition, and about every member of the IRA having a target on his back. They talked so loudly and so long, puffing cigarettes that made Thomas wheeze, that he finally suggested they move to the rear terrace where the air was cold and fresh, and their conversation would not keep the rest of the house from retiring. Brigid and I had not been invited to join the discussion, and eventually, I helped Eoin get ready for bed. I spent a long time in his room, telling him stories and reciting Yeats, until he finally drifted off to “Baile and Aillinn,” the only story he cared nothing about.

When I’d sneaked down to my room to finish Eoin’s book, the men were gone, and Thomas was already there, sitting at my desk, waiting for me. And even then, we spoke of easy things.

Now he looked up at me, weary. His fingers were smudged with lead, and he smelled of cigarettes he didn’t smoke. His expression was no longer mild, the conversation no longer easy.

“I know you aren’t Declan’s Anne,” Thomas said quietly. I was silent, heart quaking, waiting for recriminations. He stood, moved around the desk, and stopped in front of me, still an arm’s length away. I wanted to step into him. I wanted to be closer. Being near him made my belly flutter and my breasts tighten. He made me feel things I hadn’t felt before. And even though I feared what he would say next, I wanted to move toward him.

“I know you aren’t Declan’s Anne—not anymore—because Declan’s Anne never looked at me the way you do.” The last words were said so simply, I wasn’t certain I’d heard him right. Our eyes clashed and held, and I swallowed, trying to dislodge the hook from my throat. But I was caught as surely as I’d been when he pulled me out of the lake.

“And if you keep looking at me that way, Anne, I’ll kiss you. I don’t know if I trust you. I don’t even know who you are half the time. But damn if I can resist you when you look at me like that.”

I wanted him to. I wanted him to kiss me, but he didn’t close the distance between us, and his lips didn’t press into mine.

“Can’t I just be Anne?” I asked, almost pleading.

“If you aren’t Declan’s Anne, who are you?” he whispered, as if he hadn’t heard me at all.

I sighed, my shoulders drooping, my eyes falling away. “Maybe I’m Eoin’s Anne,” I said simply. I had always been Eoin’s Anne.

He nodded and smiled sadly. “Yes. Maybe you are. Finally.”

“Were you in love . . . with . . . me, Thomas?” I ventured, suddenly brave. My shamelessness made me wince, but I needed to know how he’d felt about Declan’s Anne.

His eyebrows rose in slow surprise, and he stepped back from me, distancing himself farther, and I felt the loss even as I filled my lungs in relief.

“No. I wasn’t. You were Declan’s, always. Always,” Thomas said. “And I loved Declan.”

“And if I hadn’t been . . . Declan’s . . . would you have wanted . . . me to be yours?” I pressed, trying not to slip and use the wrong pronoun.

Thomas shook his head as he spoke, almost denying the words as he said them. “You were wild. You burned so hot that none of us could help but draw closer, just to bask in your warmth. And you were—you are—so beautiful. But no. I had no wish to be consumed by you. I had no desire to be burned.”