world is full of convenience. Fast food, fast music, fast travel. And because of it, the world is a much smaller place. Information is easily shared. Science and innovation grow by leaps and bounds in the next century. Medical advances are staggering; you would be in heaven, Thomas. Discoveries are made with inoculations and antibiotics that are almost as miraculous as time travel. Almost.”
“But people still read,” he murmured.
“Yes. Thankfully. They still read books.” I laughed. “‘There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away,’” I quoted.
“Emily Dickinson,” he supplied.
“She’s one of my favorites.”
“You love Yeats too.”
“I love Yeats most of all. Do you think I might meet him sometime?” I was half kidding, half serious. The thought that I might meet William Butler Yeats had only just occurred to me. If I could meet Michael Collins, surely I could meet Yeats, the man whose words had made me want to be a writer.
“It might be arranged,” Thomas murmured. The shadows in my room were mellow and moonlit, softening but not obscuring his expression. His brows were furrowed, and I smoothed the small groove between his eyes, encouraging him to release the worrisome thought that perched there.
“Is there someone waiting for you, Anne? Someone in America who loves you most of all? A man?” he whispered.
Ah. So that was the fear. I began shaking my head before the words even left my lips.
“No. There is no one. Maybe it was ambition. Maybe self-absorption. But I was never able to give anyone the kind of energy and focus I gave to my work. The person who loved me most in the world no longer exists in 2001. He is here.”
“Eoin,” Thomas said.
“Yes.”
“That might be the hardest thing to imagine . . . my little lad, grown and gone.” He sighed. “I don’t like to think of it.”
“Before he died, he told me that he loved you almost as much as he loved me. He said you were like a father to him, and I never knew. He kept you a secret, Thomas. I knew nothing about you until that final night. He showed me pictures of you and me. I didn’t understand. I thought they were pictures of my great-grandmother. He also gave me a book. Your journal. I’ve read the first few entries. I read about the Rising. About Declan and Anne. About how you tried to find her. I wish now that I’d read everything.”
“Maybe it is better that you haven’t,” he murmured.
“Why?”
“Because you would know things that I haven’t even written yet. Some things are better left to discover. Some paths are better left unknown.”
“Your journal ended in 1922. I can’t remember the exact date. The book was full, all the way to the last page,” I confessed in a rush. It was something that had bothered me . . . that date. The end of the journal felt like it was the end of our story.
“Then there will be another book. I’ve kept a diary since I was a small boy. I have a shelf of them. Fascinating reads, all,” he said, his expression wry.
“But you gave that one to Eoin. That was the only one he had,” I argued.
“Or maybe that was the only one you needed to read, Anne,” he offered.
“But I didn’t read it. Not all of it. Not even close. I didn’t read any entries past 1918.”
“Then maybe it was the one Eoin needed to read,” he reasoned slowly.
“When I was a girl, I begged him to take me to Ireland. He wouldn’t. He told me it wasn’t safe,” I said. Thinking of my grandfather made my chest ache. It was like that, his loss. Out of the blue, his memory would tiptoe past, reminding me he was gone and I would never be with him again. At least . . . not the way he was, not the way we were.
“Can you blame him, Anne? The boy saw you disappear into the lough.” We were both quiet, the memory of the white space between places making us move closer and cling unconsciously. I laid my head on his chest, and his arms tightened around me.
“Will I be like Oisín?” I murmured. “Will I lose you, just like he lost Niamh? Will I try to return to my old life and discover that I can’t, that three hundred years have passed? Maybe my old life is already gone—my stories, my work. Everything I’ve accomplished. Maybe I am one of the