beg him to reconsider, to remain in Dublin, but he won’t listen. He will die in an ambush in a little valley they call Béal na mBláth—the mouth of flowers.
I wrote of what was to come, every detail, every theory I could remember about Michael’s death: 8.22.22; 8.22.22. The date had become a pulse in my head, the title of a terrible story, and once a story consumed me, I had to write it down. It was my compromise with Michael Collins. I would stay silent as the day approached, just as he’d asked me to do. I would keep the words in my mouth, bitter and brackish. But I would not, could not, be quiet in the end. When the day came, I would tell Thomas. I would tell Joe. I would lock Michael Collins in a room, tie him up, and put a gun to his head to keep him from his fate. These pages would be my insurance, my backup plan. Even if something happened to me, they would speak for me, and Michael’s story would have a new ending.
I wrote until my hand cramped, unaccustomed to composing without keys beneath my fingers. It had been a long time since I’d done any serious writing freehand. My penmanship was atrocious, but the action soothed me like nothing else could.
When I’d written all I could remember, I folded the sheets into an envelope, sealed it shut, and slid it into my dresser drawer.
On April 14 in Dublin, the Four Courts building on the quay side of the River Liffey was taken by anti-Treaty forces and declared the new republican headquarters. Several buildings along O’Connell Street as well as Kilmainham Gaol were also occupied. Raids were being made on Free State stores and munitions, the goods stockpiled in the occupied buildings. It was the beginning of the protracted end.
“Ya could’na given me some warning about this, eh Annie?” Michael complained, and Thomas shot him a look of such censure that Michael wilted and ran his hands through his hair.
“I’m sorry, lass. I forget myself sometimes, don’t I?”
Michael left Garvagh Glebe in a rush, his convoy, including the shrapnel-wounded soldier, trailing behind. Thomas debated remaining at home but at the last moment packed a bag and prepared to follow, worried that a battle over the Four Courts might ensue, and his skills would be needed.
Eoin sulked, sad to see the excitement end and our visitors leave. He begged Thomas to take him along, to take us both along, but Thomas refused, promising he’d be home in a few days. The occupation of the Four Courts was an escalation between the two sides that promised bloodshed, and I couldn’t remember enough of the particulars to reassure him. I simply knew a battle would break out. The Four Courts building would sustain an explosion caused by the stolen munition stores, and men would die. Good men. I just couldn’t remember the timeline or the technicalities.
“Michael’s right, you know,” I said to Thomas as he gathered his things. “I’ve been preoccupied. Some dates are like constant lights in my head. Some details won’t leave me alone. But there are other things, other events, that I should remember and don’t. I’ll do better,” I mumbled.
“Mick lashes out at those he loves. Consider it a sign of trust and affection.” Thomas sighed.
“Is that why you looked at him as though you wanted to box his ears?”
“I don’t care how much he loves you or trusts you, he will mind his manners.”
“So fierce, Dr. Smith.”
He smiled and closed his suitcase before approaching me slowly, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted in inquiry.
“Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to tell me, Countess?” he murmured, drawing so close my breasts touched his chest. They were swollen and tight, and I moaned a little, wanting to embrace him and protect them at the same time. His lips skimmed my hair, and he pulled his hands from his pockets and ran them up my sides until his thumbs brushed the tender tips.
“You’re sore. You’re beautiful. And you haven’t bled since January,” he murmured, stroking me so gently the ache became longing.
“I’ve never been very regular,” I hedged, my heart pounding. “And I’ve never been pregnant, so I don’t know for sure.”
“I do,” he said, tilting my face to his. For a moment he simply kissed me, careful and adoring, as though my mouth held his child and not my womb.
“I’m so happy,” he confessed against my lips. “Is