What the Wind Knows(69)

“Don’t say that,” Thomas protested, as if the notion was a betrayal.

“It’s the truth. Eoin is so much like you, Thomas. His mannerisms, his goodness, the way he approaches a problem. He is yours.”

Thomas shook his head again, resisting, his loyalty demanding that he take no credit. “Have you forgotten what Declan was like, Anne? He was light personified. Just like Eoin.”

“I can’t forget what I never knew, Thomas,” I reminded him softly. I felt him flinch, and I swallowed back the frustration in my chest. For several minutes we strode in silence, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. I kept my arms folded, my gaze forward, but I was aware of every step he took and every word he wanted to say. When he finally spoke, it was as if a dam burst.

“You say you can’t forget what you never knew. But you are Irish, Anne. You have Anne Gallagher’s laugh. You have her courage. You have her dark curly hair and her green eyes. You speak the language of Ireland and know the legends and stories of her people. So you can tell me you are someone else, but I know who you are.”

I could see the lake through the trees. The skies had grown dark and heavy with rain, chasing the clouds until they cowered on the water, caught between the waves and the wind. My eyes stinging and my chest tight, I turned from him and started down the path toward the lough. The grass whispered his words, “I know who you are.”

“Anne, wait.”

I whirled on him. “I look just like her, I know! I’ve seen the pictures. We are almost identical. Her clothes fit me, and her shoes too. But we are different people, Thomas. Surely you see that.”

He began to shake his head, to deny, deny, deny.

“Look at me! I know it’s hard to believe. I don’t believe it half the time. I keep trying to wake up. But I’m afraid to wake up too because when I do, you’ll be gone. Eoin will be gone. And I will be alone again.”

“Why are you doing this?” he groaned, closing his eyes.

“Why won’t you look at me?” I begged. “Why won’t you see me?”

Thomas raised his head, studying me. We stood in the grass on the side of the road, our eyes clinging, our wills clashing. Then he sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair, turning once and coming back to me, closer than before, as though he wanted to kiss me and shake me and make me give in.

I felt the same way.

“Your eyes are different than I remember—a different green. The green of the sea instead of the green of the grass. And your teeth are straighter,” he whispered.

My great-grandmother hadn’t had the luxury of expensive braces. Thomas’s gaze slid to my mouth, and he swallowed. He touched my top lip and moved his hand immediately. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, begrudging, like he was admitting something painful.

“Declan’s Anne had a gap between her front teeth. I noticed when I watched you brush your teeth that the gap was missing. You used to whistle through that gap. You claimed it was your only musical talent.”

I laughed, releasing some of the infuriating feelings swelling in my chest. “I definitely can’t whistle through my teeth.” I shrugged as if it didn’t really matter. But it mattered so much I could hardly draw breath.

“You have the same laugh. Eoin’s laugh,” Thomas continued. “But you have Declan’s steadiness too. It’s uncanny, really. It’s as if they’ve both come back . . . in you.”

“They have, Thomas. Don’t you understand?”

His face shuddered with emotion, and he shook his head again, like it was all too much, too hard to believe, and he couldn’t grasp it. But he kept on, his voice low, almost talking to himself. “You look enough like the old Anne”—he winced like he couldn’t believe he was actually differentiating between us—“that no one would ever doubt you are her. But she was . . . much . . . sharper.” He latched upon the word as if he couldn’t think of a better one, but I flinched, and I felt my face grow hot.

“I’m plenty intelligent.”

“Are ya, now?” His lips actually twitched, humor chasing the strain from his face.

Outrage bubbled in my throat. Was he laughing at me?

“I’m not talking about your intelligence, Anne. The old Anne was all sharp edges. She didn’t have your tranquility. She was . . . intense. Forceful. Passionate and, frankly, tiresome. Maybe it was because she felt she had to be. But your softness is beautiful. Soft eyes. Soft curls. A soft voice. A warm, soft smile. Don’t be ashamed of it. There’s very little softness left in Ireland anymore. It’s one of the reasons Eoin loves you so much.”

My anger deflated, and my breast swelled with a different feeling entirely.

“You’re good, you know,” he mused. “Your accent. You sound like one of us. You sound like the same Anne. But sometimes you slip. You forget . . . and then you sound like the girl you claim to be.”

“The girl I claim to be,” I muttered. I had hoped, just for a moment, that we’d moved past disbelief. But maybe not. “Whether you believe it or not doesn’t make it less true, Thomas. I need you to pretend that I am exactly who I say I am. Can you do that? Because regardless of whether you believe me or not, regardless of whether you think I’m lying or deranged or sick, I know things that haven’t happened yet, and I don’t know half of the things you think I should. I am not Anne Finnegan Gallagher. And you know it. Deep down, you do. I don’t know the names of your neighbors or the shopkeepers in town. Or how to style my hair or how to wear these infernal stockings or cook or sew or Riverdance, for God’s sake.” I yanked at the corset strap beneath my skirt and it snapped against my leg.