one by one, leaving Michael Collins’s tale for last. Eoin was very aware that he’d been appointed caretaker of Michael’s book, and he hardly breathed as we read, turning the pages gingerly so we wouldn’t crease or sully them with our use.
“We should write a story about us,” he suggested as I closed the last page.
“You, me, and Thomas?”
“Yes,” he murmured, yawning widely. He’d coughed through the night and clearly needed a nap. I pulled the blankets around his shoulders, and he snuggled down and closed his eyes.
“And what should we do? Where should we go?”
“I don’t care. Just as long as we’re together.” His sweetness brought a lump to my throat.
“I love you, Eoin.”
“I love you too,” he mumbled.
I watched as he drifted off, overcome with the need to gather him up and hold him close, to press kisses all over his little face, to tell him how happy he made me. But he was already snoring softly, his breath slightly labored by his cold. I settled for kissing his freckled forehead and brushing my cheek over his crimson hair.
I slipped from the room, pulling the door closed behind me, and made my way down the stairs. Brigid and the O’Tooles were back from Mass, and a light lunch was being prepared. I needed to get dressed and fix my hair; Robbie wanted to go to Sligo to see Arthur Griffith at Town Hall. Thomas had ordered him to be my shadow while he was gone, sleeping at Garvagh Glebe at night and leaving any duties that took him too far from the house to his brothers. We hadn’t seen or heard from Liam or Ben since Thomas had made his wishes known in December. It had been months without the slightest threat or incident, but Thomas had not relaxed his instructions. I knew Robbie wouldn’t go to the election meeting if I didn’t go with him. I wasn’t in the mood for people or politics, but I wouldn’t mind hearing Arthur Griffith speak again and hated for Robbie to miss the opportunity to hear a truly great man.
We lumbered down the lane a half hour later, promising Brigid we wouldn’t be late. Eoin was still sleeping, the storm had kept its distance, and Brigid seemed content to spend the afternoon in front of the fire, knitting and listening to my gramophone.
Sligo’s streets were filled with soldiers, and the tension in the air hummed in my chest as Robbie found a place on Quay Street to park the O’Tooles’ farm truck. A lorry full of anti-Treaty forces rumbled past, armed and grim, letting their presence be known. If intimidation was the goal, they accomplished it. Robbie and I climbed out of the truck and made our way toward the cobbled courtyard that rimmed Town Hall. People scurried alongside us, doing their best to stay off the street, even as they collected outside the palazzo-style edifice, their eyes scanning the growing crowd for trouble. At least three dozen Free State troops had created a perimeter around the building in an effort to protect the proceedings. Another lorry filled with IRA men approached, and every head turned and watched them amble by. I caught a quick flash of a familiar face.
“Robbie, is that Liam?” I hissed, grabbing his arm. The man was in the front of the lorry, facing the other side of the road, his body obscured by other men, his hair covered by an ordinary peaked hat. The lorry continued down the street without either of us making a positive identification.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Smith.” Robbie hesitated. “I didn’t see him. But maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Robbie!” someone shouted, and we turned toward the rounded Romanesque entrance as the bell in the gabled tower began to toll the hour, a dismal clanging in the cloud-covered sky. As if the ringing woke the rain, the heavens rumbled, and fat drops began to soak the cobbles around us.
“There’s Eamon Donnelly. He said he’d save us a spot,” Robbie said, and we dashed to the limestone steps, our decision made.
The meeting went without incident. We’d missed some of the earlier speeches, but listened, captivated, to Arthur Griffith, who spoke without notes, his hands resting on his cane. He wasn’t a flamethrower or a booming orator. He was measured and committed, urging the people to vote in favor of the Treaty and the candidates who supported it, not because it was perfect or solved all of Ireland’s problems, but because it promised