was situated between his knees, my back to him. I heard him remove the lid of the tonic and rub his hands together. The scent was not unpleasant, as I’d feared. It smelled like Thomas.
“Start at the tips and work your way up,” I suggested softly.
“Yes, madam.” His tone was droll, and I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. The intimacy of his actions was not lost on me. I couldn’t imagine other men of the 1920s caring for their women this way. And I was not his woman.
“No patients to see today?” I asked as he began to do as I’d suggested, working his hands up through the wet strands that hung down my back.
“It’s Sunday, Anne. The O’Tooles don’t work on Sundays, and I don’t see patients, unless it’s an emergency. I’ve missed Mass two weeks in a row. I’m sure Father Darby will be stopping by to ask why and to drink my whiskey.”
“It’s Sunday,” I repeated, trying to remember what day it had been when I’d spread Eoin’s ashes on Lough Gill.
“I pulled you out of the lough last Sunday. You’ve been here for a week,” he supplied, gathering my hair in his hand and carefully working the stiff comb through the length.
“What’s the date?” I asked.
“July third.”
“July 3, 1921?”
“Yes, 1921.”
I was silent as he continued, carefully picking through the snarls. “They’ll call a truce,” I murmured.
“What?”
“The British will propose a truce with the Dáil. Both sides will agree on July 11, 1921.” The date, unlike many of the others, had stuck in my head, because July 11 was Eoin’s birthday.
“And you know this how, exactly?” He didn’t believe me, of course. He sounded weary. “De Valera has been trying to convince the British prime minister to accept a truce since December of last year.”
“I just do.” I closed my eyes, wondering how I would ever tell him, how I would convince him of who I was. I didn’t want to pretend I was someone else. But if I wasn’t Anne Finnegan Gallagher, would he let me stay? And if I couldn’t go home, where would I go?
“There. That should do it,” Thomas said, and ran the towel over the freshly combed strands, blotting up the water and excess oil. I touched the sleek length, the ends already starting to curl, and thanked him quietly. He stood and, hands curved around my upper arms, helped me to my feet.
“I’ll leave you now. There’s a cloth and soap for washing. Stay clear of your bandages. I’ll be close. Call to me when you’re done. And for heaven’s sake, don’t faint.” He moved toward the door but hesitated as he turned the knob. “Anne?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.” The apology rang in the air for several moments before he continued. “I left you behind in Dublin. I looked for you. But I should have kept looking.” His voice was very soft, his face averted, his back rigid. I’d read his words, his account of the Rising. I’d felt his anguish. I felt it now, and I wanted to unburden him.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I said, conviction ringing in my voice. “You took care of Eoin. And Brigid. You brought Declan home. You are a good man, Thomas Smith. A very good man.”
He shook his head, resistant, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “Your name is on his headstone. I buried your shawl beside him—the green one you loved. It was all I could find.”
“I know,” I soothed.
“You know?” He turned abruptly, and the grief I’d heard in his voice glittered in his eyes. “How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the grave at Ballinagar.”
“What happened to you, Anne?” he pressed, repeating the question he’d asked too many times.
“I can’t tell you,” I implored.
“Why?” The word was a frustrated cry, and I raised my voice to match it.
“Because I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here!” I was clinging to the edge of the sink, and there must have been enough truth or desperation in my face because he sighed heavily, running his hand through his now-tousled hair.
“All right,” he whispered. “Call to me when you’re done.” He left without another word, closing the bathroom door behind him, and I washed myself with shaking hands and trembling legs, more afraid than I’d ever been in my entire life.
Eoin and Brigid returned the next day. I heard Eoin scampering up the wide staircase and down again and heard Brigid telling him I was resting