my family. I think it was just the pride of a father in his young son.”
“But time has proven your father right,” Thomas said, and Joe nodded, his face filled with devotion.
“I cannot explain what I know. You want me to give explanations that will make no sense. I will sound crazy, and you’ll be afraid of me. I told you I was no threat to you or Ireland. And that is the only reassurance I can give you. I cannot explain how I know, but I will tell you what I know, if it will help. I knew that the doors would be barred and a fire would be started only moments before it happened. When Murphy made his toast . . . I just . . . knew. I also knew the truce would be signed before it was. I knew the date, and I told Thomas, though even he had no knowledge of an agreement.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “She did, Mick.”
“I know that in October, you will be sent to London to negotiate terms of a treaty with England, Mr. Collins. Mr. de Valera will stay behind. And when you return with a signed agreement, the people of Ireland will overwhelmingly support it. But de Valera and some members of the Dáil—those loyal to him—will not. Before long, Ireland will not be fighting England anymore. We will be fighting each other.”
Michael Collins, his eyes full of tears, pressed a fist to his lips. He rose slowly, burying his hands in his hair, his anguish terrible to watch. Then, with violent emotion, he picked up his saucer and teacup and smashed them against the wall. Thomas handed him another, and it shared the same fate. The dish that held a single slice of meat pie followed, raining bits of potato and crust across the kitchen. I could not lift my eyes from his empty chair as he made short work of anything that would shatter. The shaking in my belly had moved to my legs, and beneath the table, my knees bounced uncontrollably. When he sat back down, his emotion was banked, and his eyes were hard.
“What else can you tell me?” he asked.
26 August 1921
(continued)
If I had not seen it, not heard it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Anne entered the lion’s den and calmed the beast with nothing but a tale delivered in perfect Irish and a well of knowledge that should have condemned her, not saved her.
Ireland has long since abandoned her heathen roots, but my Anne has druid blood. I’m convinced of it. It’s in her soft eyes and her purring voice, in the magic she weaves with her words. She’s not a countess; she’s a witch. But there’s no evil in her, no ill intent. Maybe that, in the end, is what won Mick over.
He asked her a dozen questions, and she answered him without hesitation when she could and with calm denial when she claimed she couldn’t. I watched her—amazed, stricken, proud. Mick didn’t want to know where she’d been or how she’d come to be in the lake—those were my questions. He wanted to know if Ireland would survive, if Lloyd George would uphold his end of the Treaty, if Partition would be defeated, and if the British would actually leave Irish soil, once and for all. It was only when Mick asked if his days were numbered that she hesitated at all.
“Time will not forget you, Mr. Collins, nor will Ireland,” she said. “That is all I can tell you.” I don’t think he believed her, but he didn’t press her. And for that, I was grateful.
When Mick and Joe finally left, slipping out the back and into a waiting car, she wilted in relief, laying her head down on the kitchen table and clinging to the edge. Her shoulders shook, but she cried silently. I tried to draw her up, to comfort her, but her legs wobbled, and she swayed. I picked her up instead, carrying her from the kitchen to the rocking chair by the fire, to the place where Mrs. Cleary knitted on nights when I asked her to keep watch for men or materials.
Anne curled into me, letting me hold her. I held my breath, fearful I would startle her, that she would bolt. Or that I would. She tucked her legs beneath her and turned her face until it was resting against my shoulder. Her breath was warm against my shirt and her tears wet, making