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.”
I didn’t know what to feel, relief or despair. I didn’t want Thomas to love her, but I did want him to care about me. And the two were suddenly intertwined.
“Declan could withstand the heat,” Thomas continued. “He loved it. He loved you. So much. You lit him up inside, and I always thought you felt the same way about him.”
To not come to Anne’s defense would be wrong. I couldn’t let Thomas doubt her, not even to save myself.
“I’m sure she did. I’m sure Anne Finnegan Gallagher felt the exact same way,” I said, head bowed.
He was quiet, but I felt his turmoil even as I refused to meet his gaze.
“I don’t understand. You speak as if you are two different people,” he pressed.
“We are,” I choked, struggling for my composure.
He took one step, and then another, drawing close enough to lift my chin and search my eyes, his fingers soft on my face. I saw my emotions—grief, loss, fear, uncertainty—reflected in his gaze.
“None of us are the same, Anne. Some days I hardly recognize myself in the mirror. It’s not