 
Allegiance: A Dublin Novella

by Heather Domin

Smashwords 2nd Edition 2013

Copyright 2011 Heather Domin

Cover design by Julie K. Rose

Although this e-book is free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced or republished without permission. Support independent publishing by encouraging others to download their own copy at Smashwords. It's good karma.

Views expressed by the characters of this story do not necessarily reflect those of the author. Rule Britannia, Scotland Forever, Erin Go Bragh, God Defend New Zealand, America Fuck Yeah, etc.

Dedicated with love to the friends who encouraged me in 2005 and then encouraged me again in 2011.

Allegiance

1.

Dublin, Ireland

January 12, 1922

"Mr. Young? Lord Christopher will see you now."

William hadn't quite got used to the way his name sounded rolling off an Irish tongue. He gave the secretary, a fresh-faced girl whose stiff black perm didn't match her freckled nose, a smile as he stood and walked past the door she held open for him. He couldn't resist a low "thank you, love" as he passed, just to see her eyebrows rise at his accent, but his grin lasted only as long as her presence.

The Director's office smelled of furniture polish and old cigars. A fire crackled in the hearth behind the mahogany desk, but little warmth reached the spot where William stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Lord Christopher, sharp-featured and slender in a tailored gray suit, not one of his fine silver hairs out of place, glanced up from his paperwork and gave William a pleasant enough expression.

"Good morning, Agent Young. Your punctuality is appreciated. Do sit down."

"Good morning, sir. Thank you." William took a seat in one of the two enormous red velvet chairs in front of the desk, and Christopher gestured to the crystal service on the side table.

"Drink? It's a bit early, but such things become moot after any length of time in this city." His smile did not quite reach his eyes.

William's instincts told him to nod and take the proffered tumbler. It wasn't too early at all if you asked him, not today. He took a sip – blood-dark claret, probably worth more than the suit William was wearing. He sipped it slowly.

"I assume your superiors in Glasgow apprised you of the circumstances surrounding your transfer before you departed?" Christopher was peering over a pair of spectacles at a stack of papers spread across his desk. William could see his own photograph among the clippings.

"Not fully, sir. I was told I'd been requested on account of my involvement in the Labor unrest last spring. I expected this was a similar situation."

The Director didn't look up from his papers. He slid his spectacles up the sharp bridge of his nose with one finger. "It was obviously too much to expect that my operatives would be sent to me properly briefed and aware of their own assignments."

William took a swallow of his claret.

"This institution is still in its infancy – if the MI5 is to protect the interests of the Crown, it is imperative that all its agents receive clear and timely communication. Even those exiled as minders of a wayward child government."

"Yes, sir," William said.

Christopher's face remained impassive. He took a sip from his glass and tapped a finger on the sheet in front of him.

"Your service record is impeccable."

"Thank you, sir."

"Educated in London on charity bursary."

"Yes, sir."

"Top of your class at Cambridge."

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you managed to retain that accent, I see."

A small muscle twitched at the corner of William's jaw.

"Well, likely that works in your favor, given the nature of your assignments. We find that employing agents of your class is favorable to accomplishing our directives. The fact that you are educated makes you a rare commodity to His Majesty's service."

The claret had gone warm in William's hand.

Christopher looked up at him and smiled, the picture of courtesy. "I requested you because of your record and your skills, Mr. Young. You have achieved substantial results in your home field, which is commendable in an agent not yet thirty years of age. I have a situation which requires your ability to blend in and gain the trust of those involved – trust which will be much more easily given to someone with your background. You will be able to find out what I want to know before this agency's authority can be threatened by outside elements."

The realization hit William then, all at once. "This isn't about trouble with Labor."

"No, it is not. This is about keeping order in the new Irish state and assuring its allegiance to the Crown."

"But _—_ Sir, I don't understand. I thought all that trouble was resolved with the Treaty. Do you suspect the IRA is plotting violence?"

"I don't believe so – at least, not yet. But you of all people should know that treaties rarely bring about the end of mob resentment. It is my belief that groups of rebels are already raising funds and amassing munitions against the new peace. They are not content with the freedom we've given them – they will not rest until all their demands are met. I refuse to let the peace be disturbed by fanatical malcontents while this district is under my surveillance."

William realized his mouth had opened, and closed it. This was not at all what he had expected or prepared for. He suddenly felt like he might be in over his head. But then...the Director had asked for him personally. That had to mean something, right? If he could pull this one off, he would have his pick of positions back home; finally get out of the service and into the police force at last. Detective Chief Inspector Young, at your service. He squared his jaw, lifted his chin a little.

"Where do I start?"

Christopher slid the stack of folders across the desk to within William's reach. "This contains your full briefing, along with background material and information on the individuals you will be monitoring. We believe they meet in a tavern on Wicklow Street, which I am certain is the focal point for all activity in which they may be involved."

"Why not send in a raid?"

Christopher chuckled. "My dear boy. Do you have any idea what the public reaction would be to a British raid on Irish citizens with no probable cause? No, we cannot detain anyone yet. As of now there is nothing on which to base such a move. There may not be for a long time yet."

"Then what _—_ "

"I need you to get in there, Young. Insinuate yourself into this place, make yourself part of their circle. Get close as you can to everyone on this list. And then wait. Just...wait. Eventually someone will slip, and that is when you shall report to me."

"If they're IRA, they'll never trust an outsider. Especially a Scot."

"The Labor militants trusted you. Your history alone should be cause enough for them to take to you at once. These people rally to tragic causes with unfailing predictability. It's another reason I selected you for this assignment."

William sat in silence for a moment, looking at the folders on the desk in front of him. Then he reached out with one hand, set his empty tumbler on the service tray, and picked up the stack of papers. The Director was watching him with sharp eyes from over the top of his glass.

"This is your chance, Young. Serve your country well."

William didn't answer, but his hand tightened on the folder as he nodded.

2.

January 14, 1922

The sky couldn't quite decide between rain and snow, settling instead for a biting, sleet-laced wind; William turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders against the sting. The little map whipped and wrinkled in his hands, smudged by the damp, until he crumpled it in one fist and shoved it back inside his coat. Looking up he saw a green sign swinging on its hooks, gold letters blurring as he squinted: The Flag and Three. He let out a sigh of gratitude. A flurry of droplets rained down on him as he pulled open the door and blew inside with a clanging of bells and wind.

It was warm inside, and darker. William shivered as he shrugged out of his frozen coat and hung it on the nearest peg. The pub was empty; it was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the after-work rush. Half the tables had their chairs turned atop them, and a mop and bucket stood in the center of the floor. A red setter lay curled in a snoring ball on a rug in front of the hearth. William envied him more than a little.

"Good afternoon to you, sir. Miserable sore weather we're having, isn't it?"

He turned to see the source of his greeting – a white-haired man in a green apron, trimming the wicks on a row of lamps lined up along the bar. Blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at William from a pleasant, red-cheeked face, a face William recognized at once. He was in the right place.

"Afternoon, sir," he said politely. "I was wondering if you might still have a bite left from noon."

At the sound of his voice, the old man's eyebrows lifted. "Sure you've traveled a bit far from home for a meal, haven't you lad?"

William used his best smile as he pulled off his gloves. "Aye, I heard you lot do a mean steak pie."

The barman laughed, a crinkled and comfortable sound. "We do indeed, so we do. Come in, then, and I'll see what's left in the icebox."

He gestured for William to have a seat on one of the bar stools as he cleared away the lamps and wiped off the bar top. He pulled down a glass and stuck it under the tap, then looked up at William with a smile. "So is Guinness alright, or should I bring up the cider?"

"Insults to the paying customers," William said. "Feels like home already." He grinned as he accepted the foaming glass.

His host made an exit through the swinging doors behind the bar into what William presumed was the kitchen. Sipping his pint, he ran his eyes across the bar – the row of taps and the lines of bottles, the towels on the runner and the stacks of glasses. Everything looked functional and normal and pleasantly familiar.

"I'm afraid you're a bit late, lad," came a call from the kitchen. "All I've left is a bit of beef stew until supper, and that cold."

"I'd be grateful of it," William replied, and his stomach growled rather embarrassingly in agreement. Rule number one of this type of work: stick as close to the truth as possible.

Another minute or two of puttering sounds, and then a plate was set before him and a spoon slid across the counter. "Here you are, then."

William gave him a cheers and dug in; the stew was as good as it smelled, and he looked up with a smile puffed out around his mouthful. "Best I've had since I've been here," he said.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, my boy. Name's Sullivan. Gerald Sullivan."

"William Young." William gave him a nod without letting go of his spoon.

"And what brings you to our fair isle then, Mr. Young? Besides a fondness for our leftovers?"

William dropped his eyes and swallowed his bite. He waited the requisite few beats, then looked back up and spoke quietly. "I'm just the wandering type."

Gerald understood immediately, and nodded. "Ah." As he watched William eat, he grabbed a bar towel and began to wipe down the taps. "Have you been here long?"

"Aye, awhile. I stayed on a farm in Antrim for a time, after _..._ but I wanted to be in the city. Thought I might make a home here."

Gerald's brow rose. "In Dublin?"

Before William could answer, the door opened with a jangle of bells and a whistle of wind, and Gerald's look of surprise broke into a wide smile. He came around the bar and moved for the door as he cried, "There you are, lass, there you are. Get in here out of the wet and get yourself warm."

William turned just in time to see a tangle of blond hair spill from beneath its cloth. Its owner whipped her head back, shaking drops of sleet onto the floor, and set her packages on the table as she pulled off the wet kerchief and coat. Seeing him staring at her, his spoon frozen in mid-air, she smiled and said, "Hello there."

"Give me these, lass," spluttered Gerald, gathering the bags, "and get yourself dried off." He bustled into the kitchen, while the girl hung her coat on the peg next to William's and walked around behind the bar. She grabbed a clean towel and began wiping off her face and arms.

"It's a bit wet out," she smiled.

"Aye," William said.

Her eyebrows rose just as Gerald returned and announced, "We've got ourselves a wandering Scotsman here, love. He's come all the way from Glasgow to sample your beef stew."

William smiled and wiped a hand on his thigh before putting it out to her. "William Young, miss."

"Mary Sullivan." She gave his hand a firm shake and returned to her toweling. "And what brings you from Glasgow to Dublin besides my fabulous cooking, Mr. Young?"

"He's keeping himself to himself, daughter, so don't be asking him your thousand questions," said Gerald. "Let the man eat in peace, I've pestered him enough. Let's make some tea, shall we?"

"I've left Glasgow for good, Miss Mary," William said. "I'm making my home in Dublin now. Your da's made me feel right at home already, I might add. And please, call me William."

He saw her eyes go suddenly round, and he knew she was looking at his scar. Leaning over as he was with his collar unbuttoned, nearly the entire line would be visible, stretching red and raised from his right earlobe down beneath his jaw to disappear against his collarbone. He watched her hide her reaction exactly as Gerald had done; it was a process he had seen many times. Her eyes hastily cleared and she gave him a bright smile.

"And do you have a place to stay yet, William?"

"Mary." Gerald put a hand on her arm, but she made no move to turn away.

"Er, not permanent, as of yet," he said. "I planned to find some employment first and then get myself a place after."

"So you're needing a job, then?" she said. "Perhaps we can help you with looking."

William glanced at Gerald. "That's alright, miss, though you're kind to offer. Likely your da doesn't have time to look after foreigners off the street."

"My father likes you fine, that much I can see," she answered. "And I myself happen to be an excellent judge of character."

"Mary, do you go and get the tea before you give yourself in marriage to the man?" Gerald cried. Mary smiled, unperturbed, and disappeared into the kitchen. Gerald shook his head as she went.

"Forgive my daughter – she's got a runaway tongue on her, and she loves to meddle in the affairs of others. I blame the lack of a proper maternal figure." He grinned, but William saw him cross himself as he turned back to the sink.

"It's no bother," William said. "She's kind to think of a stranger so. But I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Nonsense, lad, 'tis no trouble at all. I know most families around this neighborhood; I can put out the word for you among the boarders. And take your hand out of your pocket, I won't have your money. Far be it from me to withhold a drink and a sup from any soul who needs one. Finish your glass, I'll be right back."

When he had gone, William rubbed his neck and drank the last of his Guinness. He was definitely at the right place – this was without a doubt the same Gerald Sullivan as in the advert photo, but something uneasy nagged at William's mind. His instincts told him this man was no terrorist, and he always trusted his instincts. A supporter, then. He was a shelterer to be sure, and William had no interest in reporting shelterers. Sullivan was only the way in, he told himself. Only a means to an end.

He could hear Mary's voice over the running water in the kitchen. " _—_ a few days, Da. The man needs a good start."

"I know that, daughter, but you can't just up and offer a job to any stranger off the street."

William froze in mid-swallow.

"You would have done if he were Irish, and you know it. Doesn't he need your help the same as the others? Likely more than we know. You feel it, same as I do."

"I'll not have my words thrown back at me by my own daughter. I'll have you know I was planning on offering the lad Tommy's place for a good ten minutes now. I just needed to get a feel for him, is all. Could be unsafe."

"And is it?"

Gerald's voice went soft. "You talk so like your mother, girl. Go and get the tea."

The door swung open and brought in the comforting fragrance of fresh tea. Mary set the tray down and clucked her tongue at the setter, who had risen from his nap and was nuzzling at her legs while she poured. "Off with you, Ruan, go on," she cooed, but she dropped him a piece of scone and smiled as his tail thumped with delight.

"Well as the walls are thin and my daughter's lungs are not, no doubt you heard our proposal," said Gerald. "I've been meaning to hire a hand myself, so I have. My last lad had to...go, last month, and I've had no one since. It's nothing exciting, just someone to do the cleaning and the fetch-and-carry during the busy hours. You're welcome to it until you find something better."

William blinked at him.

"Only an offer, of course," added Gerald. "And not a very appealing one, I know."

"Tea, William?" Mary passed him a cup before he could answer. His empty pint glass was removed and a second slice of bread placed atop his plate. The dog was sniffing amiably at his ankles, tail swishing against the floor in greeting. William brought the teacup to his lips and returned Mary's smile.

"Thank you," he said.

3.

January 16, 1922

The front door bells barely had time to jingle before they were answered with a loud bark, and William found himself struggling against not only an armful of packages but an enthusiastic stumbling block running circles between his legs. The dog yelped out his greeting, tail wagging madly until William surrendered and set his load on the nearest table, squatting to return the welcome with two ruffling hands. From the kitchen he heard Gerald's voice and looked up just as he entered with a crate of glasses, scowling at the setter.

"Oi, Ruan, shut your gob, we _—_ oh it's you, William. I'm sorry for that cursed creature pawing at you."

"He's just doing his job, isn't that right Ruan? Who's a good watchdog then?" William scritched the dog's ears and smiled as the tail-wagging increased.

Did you find what you needed at the market?" Gerald asked.

William patted Ruan's belly and recalled his afternoon: mapping out the neighborhood in his mind; noting the relevant buildings and marking the police station and post boxes; eating an apple under an awning and scanning the passing crowds at the market; standing at the notice boards and bending an ear to every raised voice or gossipy whisper.

"Aye," he said, "I've got all I need here, I think."

He stood and collected his shopping. "Thank you again for the day's wages, Gerald. I took a look at the boards today and I'm sure I'll find something soon. I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

Gerald looked down at his crate. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that, lad."

"Oh?"

"Have you spoken to anyone about a job or lodgings yet?"

"Not yet, no."

Gerald nodded. "I don't mean to be insulting you, William, but it's _—_ you must know that it might be a hard time for you to...well, to find someone who..."

"Who would hire a Scot?"

"Aye. You may not have picked the best time or place to start over, lad."

William nodded. He looked out the window at the people hurrying by on the street outside. So many people, so many faces, and not one of them familiar – not one of them knowing why he was here, or what it was he was trying to do, or that he was doing it for their own good.

"I'm right where I want to be," he lied.

Gerald chuckled. "You're a scrappy young knacker, I'll give you that. And I won't be lying, I've got a bit of a soft spot for scrappy young knackers." He set his crate on the counter and then crossed his arms.

"See, it's like this. You've done such a wondrous job of cleaning up the place, and _—_ well, if you can't find anything better...that is to say... I've got the spare room upstairs. It's not the grandest sight on earth, but it's no tenement hole, that's for sure. I can't pay you enough for a fancy flat but you're welcome to the room as part of your wages."

William was dumbfounded. It couldn't possibly be this easy.

"You're offering me a place to live? You've known me three days!"

Gerald's cheeks grew even redder and he made a gruff noise. "Bollocks, what difference does that make? You need a room, I've got one wanting, it's simple as that. All I ask is that you help with the chores, and also that you not murder myself and my daughter in our beds." He looked down at the loud thumping at William's feet. "Besides, my dog fancies you, and Ruan's the best judge of character I know, so he is."

They both laughed, and then the room grew quiet. William could see Gerald trying not to stare at his scar. Lord Christopher's assessment was proving more and more accurate, and William realized he did not like that very much. His grin faded.

"I don't know what to say."

Gerald clapped him on the back. "Say you'll start tomorrow night."

William hoisted his armful of packages and smiled.

The quilt on the bed was red gingham, something William had not seen in a very long time. The sheets beneath were plain strong homespun, warm and familiar and smelling of the rosehip sachet that had met his fingers when he checked beneath the mattress. He now sat cross-legged with his back against the wrought-iron bedstead, chewing his pencil and wiggling his toes inside his socks. His shoes peeked from beneath the bed, side by side and pointing out, the only remaining habit from his dormitory days – that, and the ability to spot a loose floorboard and know exactly how much would fit into the space beneath it.

The board in question stood propped beside the nightstand, with his briefcase lying open on the floor in front of it. His initials were embossed into the leather: WY, a gift from his sister when he graduated Cambridge. She would be wanting a telegram soon to know he had arrived safely. He would send her one with the next wire of money.

The papers strewn across the bed were covered equally in stark black type and his own scrawled handwriting. He had thrown away the photographs before he left the Director's office, but there had only been two: a newspaper advert of Gerald at the door of the pub, and a grainy mug shot of a suspected triggerman, someone called Kelly. Sullivan was the in and Kelly was the checkmark, but neither were of great importance. William scanned down the list of names and information. It looked the same as all the others: common workers, everyday men trading information and keeping the real conspirators from getting caught. The more these men got comfortable with him, the better chance he had at getting close to his real targets – the leaders, or those who knew who their identity.

William read through the blurry type, scowling in concentration. Now here was a young one – father's whereabouts unknown, mother dead for some years, older brother a munitions smuggler presumed dead after the Rising in '16. Dock worker, no criminal record. Seen with known faction members, including some suspected of smuggling cash from America. William nodded to himself. A well-liked lad with a tragic past – definitely the sort needed for the heart, if not the brains, of a rebellion.

And what does that make me? he thought, and grinned.

The evidence was circumstantial, but given the culture of the IRA it seemed a fair bet the lad was involved more heavily than appearances let on. More importantly, William's instincts prickled on the back of his neck the moment his eye caught the name. This boy was one to watch, he knew it without question. He circled the name with broad strokes of his pencil. Adam Elliot.

A knock at the door and he nearly leapt off the bed. The papers were gone and the case snapped shut before he even heard the soft voice on the other side of the door. "Mr. Young?"

The floorboard clicked into place and he said, "Come in."

Mary's gold hair caught the lamplight as she peeked around the door. William looked up at her from where he lounged on the bed, reading spectacles on his nose and well-worn novel in his hands.

"I brought you some water and another pillow, if you like. Sorry to be disturbing you."

"No, Miss Sullivan, you're not disturbing me at all. Thank you for thinking of me."

She entered, tray in her hands and feather pillow tucked beneath one arm. She set the water on the nightstand and plumped the pillow a little before setting it at the end of the bed. William managed not to smile as he watched her take in the room with a quick sweep of her eye: the suitcase sitting open on the chair; the wallet and watch on the nightstand; the shoes beneath the bed; the novel in his hands. Remembering herself, she looked back at him and clasped her hands together.

"Well, so, then, will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thanks very much, Miss Sullivan."

"I've told you to call me Mary."

He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles and smiled. "Only if you'll call me William."

"It's a deal, then." She turned as if to go, then paused. "Oh, yes – if you'd like, I could show you around a bit tomorrow, where the markets are and such. And the post, in case you were wanting to send word to your family."

He admired her tenacity, that was for certain. He decided it was time to give her something in return. "Actually I did want to telegram my sister, so that would be lovely, thanks."

"Oh, your sister? Does she stay back in Glasgow with your parents, then?"

"My parents are dead."

She gave a little "oh!" and covered her mouth with one hand. With the other she crossed herself. "I am sorry for prying, William. I've no right to run on so."

He gave her a kind smile. "Think nothing of it, lass. It happened a long time ago."

He could feel her eyes on his throat as he leaned over to reach for his glass of water. In the lamplight the shadow of his scar would be deeper, the lines more vivid. He rubbed at his neck until she averted her eyes; when she looked back at him, her face had changed. William saw understanding there, and something else as well – empathy. He swallowed the rest of the water, his throat gone suddenly dry.

"Well, I'll leave you then," she said, and moved towards the door. When she reached the threshold, William spoke quietly.

"Mary?"

She turned in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Thank you for showing me kindness."

"We must all do our part," she said, and the door clicked softly behind her.

4.

January 17, 1922

When William was fourteen he had worked a summer in his uncle's pub in Glasgow. His father had said it would be a good learning experience – both to see what it was to earn your pay, and to see what fools men could be when they were in their cups. By the end of that summer his father was dead, and the money had bought William a new suit of clothes and a train ticket to London. But by then he had already learned both lessons well.

The Flag and Three was filled to capacity, noisy and smoky and practically swaying with the rollicking of its occupants. They sat round every table and elbowed each other at the bar, hollering to be heard. In one corner two lads were going full-force at the fiddle and bodhrán, and the tables there had been pushed back to clear out a dancing space. It swirled now in a blur of clapping hands and twirling skirts as a group of young folk stomped and swung through a frantic, sweaty version of "Scarce O' Tatties". The surrounding patrons clapped and whistled and praised the attributes of the most enthusiastic skirt-twirlers.

William watched the scene from the kitchen door. He was still amazed at his unbelievable luck. He had already heard several familiar names in the midst of all the shouted greetings, and this was only the third hour of the first night. Gerald was going full steam, handing out pint after pint and pouring the whisky as well, laughing as heartily as the tipsiest of his clients. William smiled and went back to wiping out the next set of clean glasses. He'd found that "fetch and carry" meant "fetch more whisky" and "carry out the empty pints", and he had already been downstairs twice to change the barrel. Not much was different since the last time he'd been on this side of the bar.

Mary passed him in a rush, her arms full of damp towels. She smiled as he held the door open for her.

"Quite a crowd," he said above the din.

"Aye, it's Saturday," she replied. "They've all got to make sure they've something to confess tomorrow or the week's not worth it." She winked at his laugh and hurried into the kitchen, her braid flying out behind her.

The song ended as abruptly as it had begun and the room broke into applause. The dancers fanned themselves and gulped down their drinks, and a fresh wave of flushed faces bellied up to the bar. William took a breath, tugged at his apron, and moved to the counter to joined Gerald behind the counter. He was distributing pints as fast as the tap would fill them, pressing glasses into waiting hands and plucking the coins without turning his head; William approached him as he dropped a jingling handful into the box.

"Do you need some help?"

"What's that you say?"

"I said do you need some help?" William shouted. Several heads turned in his direction.

"Oh, that would be grand, lad. Can you run a tap?"

William slipped in beside him, forming a two-man pint assembly line. The men at the bar eyed one another over their drinks.

"Who's this then, Gerry?" said one, a brown-haired young man perched rather precariously on the farthest stool. He gave William an evaluating look. "Hired new help, have you?"

"Sure I had to, didn't I, to keep up with you drunkards?" replied Gerald. "This is William, lads, and make him welcome."

William smiled and handed the young man a pint, dropping his coin into the box. "William Young. Nice to know you."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, it's a bleedin' Prod!"

"Watch your tongue, boy," said Gerald. "This man is a guest under my roof."

At that, the customers grinned. "Taken in another stray, have you, Gerald?" called one.

"He's helped all the wayward souls in Dublin, so he has, and now he's recruitin' from Edinburgh!" said another, to general laughter.

William slid them both fresh glasses and picked up their coins. "Glasgow, actually," he said pleasantly.

That sent a few murmurs through the crowd. "Well then, Glasgow," said the first lad, "Tell me something. What brings a fucking Scotch Prod into the center of Dublin?"

The noise at the bar dropped a notch. Several more drinkers craned their necks to get a better look. Gerald glanced at William, but William was still smiling that small, genial smile. He stuck a glass beneath the tap and poured.

"Why, the warm Irish hospitality, of course."

Most everyone laughed, and the talk round the bar resumed its former pitch. Gerald poked a finger into the young man's shoulder. "Now you mind your manners, Andy, and don't go besmirching our cultural reputation any further," he said. "William's left Glasgow for good, and we of all men know that the past is a man's own and none of our affair."

William took the cue and dropped his eyes, waiting for the whispers he knew would follow.

"So it is," Andy said, "So it is." He smiled then, and stuck out a hand. "Andrew Byrne is my name. Welcome to our side of the Sea."

William shook his hand firmly, returning the smile to show no hard feelings. He plucked a stray shot of whisky off the bar and raised it. "Sláinte," he said, and tossed it back.

The drinkers raised their glasses, shouting a chorus of "Sláinte!" before draining them dry. William saw many glances in his direction, some less subtle than others, but they were cursory and short-lived. All but one – a dark-haired man sitting in the back corner, drinking straight from a bottle and staring at William with hard-edged eyes. William recognized him instantly – it was the triggerman, Kelly. William noted the man noting him and then turned his attention back to the bar.

He was pouring the box of coin into the drawer when the doorbells clanged violently and the room erupted into shouts of greeting. William's knuckles flexed on the wood when he recognized the name they were calling.

"Good evening to all in this house," said a clear voice.

"Adam, ya skiver, you're late as usual!" shouted a drunken reply.

"What kept you, Elliot?" called another.

"More like who kept him, and where is she now," yelled a third.

More laughter and shouts of welcome, and William turned around. Pushing through the crowd was a bright-eyed young man, several years younger than himself, with his cap cocked too far in one direction and his grin cocked too far in the other. He was clean-faced and well-dressed, pale brown hair curling out beneath his cap and clear skin glowing in the smoky light. Hands clapped him on the back as he approached the bar, and he smiled at each face in turn and dipped his head in greeting. He elbowed himself in next to Andy and looked at William with curious and still-sober gray eyes, smiling politely, and then Andy shoved at him and broke his attention.

"Elliot, you bastard, you owe me a pint. Pay up, and add another for interest."

"So I do, Andy, so I do," said the boy. "Gerald, a pint for this thirsty gentleman and another for myself, if you please." He pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and dropped one onto the bar.

"Jesus!" cried the man to his right. "You should be buyin' us all pints, and supper besides!"

"Well then I wouldn't have any left to give to Holy Church, now would I?" replied the boy. The notes disappeared into his pocket.

"Alright, enough of your showing off, you young dosser," said Gerald, looking at the lad with unconcealed affection. The boy returned the look, then turned to William.

"I don't think we've met, sir."

Gerald, softened both by the new arrival and the amount of whisky he had consumed, grasped William around the shoulders and pulled him forward. "This is William – he'll be helping Mary and me round here from now on. William, this is young Adam Elliot, a friend of my family since birth."

There was a pause, and then William remembered to put out his hand. "William Young," he said. "Good to meet you, Adam."

Adam's gray eyes widened in surprise.

"He's a Prod," Andy offered helpfully.

Adam glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "Well then he'll not be taking up your time in the confessional tomorrow, will he?" He turned back to William and shook the offered hand. "It's a pleasure, William."

Down the bar someone shouted, "Oi, Glasgow! Can we get a refill down here?"

"Right there," William called, and nodded at Adam before turning away.

From the corner came the squeak of the fiddle, and a voice yelled, "Right, let's have another!"

"What'll you have, then?" called the fiddler, tucking his chin with bow poised. Various requests were shouted one over the other for a moment or two, until a high female voice rose above the rest.

"'The Limerick Rake'!"

The call was met with instant approval; there was a commotion at the end of the bar, and William turned to see a dozen hands tugging at Adam's shoulders and arms, trying to drag him from his stool.

Adam clutched his glass to his chest. "I've not even had my first pint yet! Can a man not drink in peace anymore?"

"Then your pipes are still fresh and untainted," someone yelled. "Now get your arse over there and sing!"

"Sing! Sing!" chanted a score of voices, until Adam drained the rest of his pint in a single swallow and set the glass down in mock defeat. Catcalls followed him as he made his way over to the corner; passing the source of the request, he leaned down to the girl and said with a threatening gleam, "I'll have my vengeance for this, Sarah Reilly."

The girl's dark eyes were sharp and snapping. "I'm counting on it, Adam Elliot."

He was smiling ear to ear as he found a spot beside the fiddler. . William leaned on the bar to watch, his curiosity piqued by this dramatic display. There was a sharp tap-tap-tap from the bodhrán, the fiddler struck his bow, and Adam cleared his throat and began to sing.

I am a young fellow that's easy and bold,

In Castletown Conners I'm very well known,

In Newcastle West I spent many a note

With Kitty and Judy and Mary.

Me parents rebuked me for being a rake

And spending me time in such frolicsome ways,

But I ne'er can forget the good nature of Jane,

Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

The crowd clapped along, offering the occasional shouted suggestion of names to add to the list. Adam soaked up their attention along with his breath for the second verse.

If I chance for to go to the town of Rathkeal,

All the girls all around me do flock on the square,

Some give me a bottle and others sweet cake

To treat me unknown to their parents.

There's one from Askeaton and one from the pike,

Another from Arda, me heart has beguiled,

Tho' being from the mountains her stockings are white,

Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

William watched in silent amazement. If he had any doubts after that show at the bar, they disappeared when Adam seized the bodhrán and leapt up onto the nearest table to beat out the bridge. There could no mistake about it – this was the same Adam Elliot from the list in the folder. This was his money-runner. He had found him on the very first night.

Adam hammered the bodhrán in perfect time as his neck began to grow damp with sweat, his face flushed and smile wicked, and William forgot his inner congratulations and could only watch him with everyone else.

Now there's some say I'm foolish and more say I'm wise,

To be fond of the women I think is no crime,

For the son of King David had ten thousand wives,

And his wisdom was highly regarded.

I'll take a good garden and live at my ease,

And each woman and child can partake of the same,

If there's war in the cabin, themselves they can blame,

Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

And now for the future I mean to be wise,

And I'll marry the women who acted so kind,

I'll marry them all in the morrow by and by,

If the clergy agree to the bargain.

And when I'm on me back and me soul is at peace,

Those women will crowd for to cry at me wake,

And their sons and their daughters William offer a prayer,

To the Lord for the soul of their father.

The pub burst into cheers. Adam beamed, his eyes shining as he wiped his brow with the back of one hand; he grinned down at the crowd and gave them a grandiose bow. Someone took the bodhrán from his hands and replaced it with a fresh pint. Adam's eyes fell on William, still watching from behind the bar; Adam smiled and raised the glass before tilting his head back to drain it dry.

"Oi, Glasgow," said someone at the bar. "Can I have my whisky or what?"

William watched Adam grab the girl Sarah for a breathless kiss. He finished filling the customer's tumbler to the brim, and then picked it up and drank it in one swallow.

"I do believe this is the last of the lot," said Mary. She set her basket of dirty towels on the bar and wiped her arm across her forehead. "I think these lads spill more beer than they drink."

William looked up from his broom. The last of the chairs had been upended on the freshly-wiped tables, and Mary was gathering stray glasses to take to the kitchen. The pub was quiet and dim, William having blown out the lamps after the final customers tottered through the door. Now the light from the dying fire and the glow of the electrics from the kitchen cast long shadows across the wood floor; Ruan lay curled up by the hearth, snoozing contentedly. Gerald sat on a stool at the end of the bar, counting notes into tidy stacks and jotting down the numbers in his books. Mary scooped up her last load and slipped into the kitchen as William finished sweeping and emptied his dustpan into the bin.

"You did well tonight, lad," said Gerald. "I was thankful of your help. The lads took to you straight off, as I knew they would."

"I was glad of it, Gerald," William said. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Nonsense, you're a natural. It's glad I am I found you before you ended up in some dirty warehouse, or worse – in another pub." He grinned and pointed to a small stack of coins. "There you are, my boy, your share of the night."

William's eyes widened. "I don't need that much, Gerald, honestly."

"No, but you deserve it." Gerald waited until William stepped forward and picked up the coins before continuing. "Now Mary and I will be in church tomorrow morn, so you'll need that to find yourself some breakfast. There's a fine place three blocks down run by some Jews – they'll be open for you. Good bread, they have." He winked and added, "Unless you wanted to come to Mass with us, that is."

William laughed and dropped the money into his pocket. Mary's voice called from the kitchen: "William?"

"Aye?"

"Could you be a love and get me some more soap? I'm up to my elbows in here. It's in the storeroom, second shelf on the right."

William propped his broom against the counter. "Be right there." He left Gerald to his bookkeeping and headed down the stairs to the cellar.

He felt his way along the damp corridor wall until he reached the storeroom on the right. He groped for the chain on the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the room lit just enough to see; he gathered up a handful of soap packets and pulled the chain again, hurrying back through the darkness to get out of the chill.

He was at the bottom of the staircase when he heard something thump in the liquor cellar at the opposite end of the corridor. The noise came again – a thump and a rustle, followed by a small, high sound. The inspector in William was walking down the shadowy corridor before he realized it, clutching his armful of soap packets, and he peered silently around the doorway into the shadows of the cellar.

Rows and rows of bottles lined the cellar walls, one end stacked with a mountain of beer barrels and the other corners dotted with crates and boxes. The girl perched atop one of these crates, her back against the shelves, one leg dangling toward the floor and the other wrapped tight around the figure rocking steadily between her thighs. He held her round the waist with one arm, the other braced against the wall, taking up the weight of his thrusts to cause as little jostling as possible. His braces hung in loops at his sides, his open trousers hidden by the wrinkled folds of her skirt. Her shirt spread open enough to show her small pale breasts, and her head tipped back as she pressed herself into him, her dark hair spilling down his arm, and when his lips moved across her throat she clutched at his back and gave another high-pitched sigh.

"Adam..."

William's breath stuck in his throat. His instincts pushed him back through the arch and up the staircase, but not a single muscle responded. He stood motionless, eyes wide and round and dilated in the gloom. The paper packets of soap crinkled warm and soft in his palms.

Adam was kissing Sarah now, hard and fast, his fingers gripping the shelf as he pushed up sharply and she moaned against his mouth. His cap hung from a cork on the next row, and her hands mussed his hair in sweaty spikes along his brow. He pushed faster, his thighs straining with tension, his arm jerking Sarah closer as she clawed silent trails down the back of his shirt. They rocked together against the crate until the wood began to creak, and now her breathy whimpers were matched by his low grunts. Adam broke the kiss to catch his breath, and his eyes opened in the dim light to fix directly onto William's face.

William blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He wet his lips and swallowed; his fingers twitched on the paper in his hands.

Sarah dropped her forehead to Adam's shoulder and quickened her tempo with another soft cry of his name. Adam stared at William for a long moment, eyes glittering in the dark as a single bead of sweat rolled down his face. Then his upper lip twitched into a grin, and he turned his head to bury his face in the soft skin below Sarah's upturned ear. She bucked and he swore, their pace increasing until the bottles behind her back began to rattle against each other with small tinkling sounds.

William backed up a step, then another, and then turned and fled through the arch and up the stairs as silently as he had come.

The bright electric lights in the kitchen made him blink and squint. Mary took the wrinkled soap packets from his hands and peered into his face.

"Are you alright, love?"

"Aye, I'm fine."

"I was afraid you were getting lost down there."

William wiped his sweating palms on the front of his shirt. He pulled off his apron and hung it on its peg before he turned to take the back stairs to his room.

"I was," he said.

5.

January 23, 1922

The lunchtime customers seemed more subdued than the evening crowd, but William enjoyed this time of day the most. True, the number of men who greeted him by name at the bar increased with each passing shift, but the nights were so beer-soaked and hectic that it was sometimes difficult to take proper mental notes. The days, however, were not spent tied to the bar but rather roaming among the tables, listening to the old men at their dominoes and the young women bouncing babies on their knees, conversations quieter and often much more useful. The notebook under his floorboard grew steadily fatter with his penciled observations.

On this particular afternoon the rush was over by two o'clock, and the tables sat empty a bit earlier than usual. The day outside was clear, though bitterly cold, and bright sunlight shone through the front windows and reflected off the mirrors behind the bar. William was sweeping the floor, enjoying the warmth and quiet, when the kitchen door swung open and Mary appeared with a plate in each hand and a smile on her face.

"We had so much of it left, it seemed a shame to put it all away," she said. "Will you sit with me awhile?"

She didn't have to ask twice. William propped his broom in the corner and wiped his hands on his apron as the smell of shepherd's pie reached his nostrils. Mary had meant her question literally – she set the plates down and then hopped up onto the bar next to them, swinging her feet between the stools. William, not quite so bold or so spry, took a seat on a stool beside her. She slid him a plate and produced two small brown bottles from her apron, passing one to him with a grin.

"Don't tell my father," she said. "He doesn't like me to be drinking this stuff."

"Your secret is safe with me," said William, and took a swallow from the curved bottle. He'd forgotten how much he liked Coca-Cola.

"How is it, then?" Mary asked, not referring to the beverage.

"It's fine," William replied. "It's better than I could have asked for."

"No one's been giving you any trouble, have they? And I don't mean Andrew talking before he's thinking."

William swallowed a bite of shepherd's pie. "No, no trouble." He took another spoonful, then added, "There is one bloke who gives me odd looks now and again, so I just make sure to stay out of his way. A dark-haired fellow, my age I think, only taller with a black jacket."

"Oh, Shane Kelly," said Mary. She made a vague gesture with her bottle. "He's a crotchety thing, your typical good-for-nothing troublemaker. I don't know why my da keeps him in the _—_ " She shook her head. "Well, don't take notice of him, William, he's sour on everyone."

William ate his peas, thinking. He did take notice of Shane Kelly. He took nearly as much notice of Shane Kelly as he took notice of the Elliot lad, though for completely different reasons. The man was clearly full of anger, and already had a proven history of violence. William had dealt with his type before; if he did not tread lightly things could get ugly, and that was the last thing William wanted. It would be best to keep Kelly at arm's length and try at least to gain his tolerance, if not his trust. If he was the loose cannon Mary described him to be, that was all the more reason for William to get this thing over and done with as quickly as possible before anything could come to fruition. Before any more blood could be shed.

"Does it hurt?"

William started a little. "What?"

"Does it hurt?" Mary repeated.

Looking down at himself, William realized he was rubbing at the scar on his neck. He put his hand back in his lap and drank his Coca-Cola.

"I'm sorry," Mary said. "You don't have to talk about it."

William looked out through the freshly-cleaned windows. The sky was cloudless blue above the rooftops, rare this time of year, the winter sun sharp in his eyes.

"I was fourteen," he said. "My father was in the Labor movement – everybody was. He settled down when Meg and I were born, but then things got bad again later, while we were still small – strikes, street fights, things like that. Nothing too bad, at first anyway. It was just what we did.

"One day we had a march, a parade, like. We all marched in it, the wee ones carrying paper signs next to their fathers carrying rifles. The police came, and then the army. There was a lot of pushing and swearing, and then the lads started throwing rocks. One hit Meg in the face and she started to cry."

"William," Mary whispered.

"My father started shouting, everyone was shouting, and then someone fired. I don't know who – I don't think anyone ever knew for sure. Da threw me and Meg to the ground right before the army opened fire. My mother got between us and them, but I didn't know that until later. I just saw my father run and jump on a soldier, and I tried to help him. The next bullet went through us both." He ran his finger down the red trail on his skin. "I was lucky."

Mary reached down and took his hand. Her fingers intertwined with his, long and slim around his knuckles. Her eyes shone a soft, sympathetic blue. William smiled at her.

"After that it was Meg and me, and I've taken care of her ever since. Whether she likes it or not." He grinned and gave her hand a squeeze. "It's all in the past."

"The past never dies," Mary said.

William stared at her. She opened her mouth to go on, but then her eyes moved past him and she jumped with a startled gasp. William turned his head to see Adam standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb with his arms folded across his chest. His face was oddly blank, but it broke into a wide smile when Mary called out in loud irritation.

"Adam Elliot, what the devil are you doing sneaking around the shadows like that? You put the heart in me crossways, so you did."

"I came up the back," Adam said. "I'm supposed to meet your father this afternoon."

"He's downstairs already. The others will be along directly."

Adam glanced at William, then gave Mary a grin. "Right then. Are you going to give me a pint before I go, or shall I tell your da you've been drinking Coca-Cola again?"

Mary scowled. "You're a conniving devil, that's what you are, and it's ashamed I am to be under your blackmail." She set down her empty bottle as Adam laughed.

William removed his fingers from her hand and stood. "I'd better get back to work," he said, and began gathering their empty plates. He felt Adam watching him, and his face flushed with uncomfortable memory. It was likely too much to hope that the boy had been too drunk to remember anything from that particular evening – the expression on his face gave no clue one way or the other. Adam did not budge from the doorway, and William had to pause before squeezing past him into the kitchen.

"Alright, Glasgow?" Adam said, and the amusement in his eyes was all the answer William needed.

"Hello Adam," he muttered, clutching the plates, and pushed his way through. As he entered the kitchen he saw Adam's grin falter a shade, and the scar on his neck began to itch faintly.

6.

5 January, 1922

Dearest Meg,

I do hope you've not forgotten this post box, as you know I can't put my name on the envelope. To think of all my heartfelt correspondence growing dusty, unread and forlorn...and after I laboured for so long on my penmanship, too! But I know you couldn't forget your dear only brother, try though you might. Still, it's never easy dropping off these posts with an empty return address. At least the wires go straight to the bank.

All is well here. Dublin is a fine and beautiful city, full of good honest people. A bit colder than normal for January, I reckon, but then, you always did say I was thin-blooded. The city itself is quite lovely. It's not all that unlike Glasgow, really, except for the sad excuse they call whisky. I believe if I were to stay here much longer I should turn into a pint of Guinness, for it's all I can stomach without pining for home. Do have the cabinet stocked upon my return, dear sis, and I'll be eternally grateful.

I can't discuss much else, but it is proving to be a most interesting stay indeed. Nothing at all like I was expecting. The family I am with is wonderful, and the people are far more amiable than I gave them credit for. Fascinating, the lot of them. One bloke in particular is unlike anyone I've come across in all my years of this work. I think you would like him, actually, if circumstances were different. I know I would. At any rate, I doubt I shall be here as long as I expected when I first wrote you. A few more weeks ought to be more than sufficient.

As I write this, I realise I am quite anxious to see how things unfold. I find myself thinking that for once in my life, I would prefer it if I were wrong. Now now, I hear your exclamation of shock! I don't know, Meg – I would rather this one prove overblown, or at least controllable. Mostly, I just want to take care of it quickly, and come home. I can't believe how long it's been.

I miss you terribly, sis. I find the dog a poor substitute for your company (if significantly more happy to see me at times). I do not know how much longer I shall be engaged here, but I have a feeling about this one that I cannot shake. Things are going to change for me, and soon. I know I have said that before, but this time I'm certain of it. When this is over I will come home for good.

If this last wire doesn't reach you, go to the office and have them cover you until it's sorted. And don't tell them to send any back this time, either. I've got far more than I need. Say hello to the girls and kiss them for me. I fear they must be distressed at my long absence. I'm sure you'll set them straight. My best love to all. I'll be home soon.

I'm doing the right thing, Meg.

All my love,

William

7.

February 4, 1922

The pub was busier than usual – nowhere near the pace of last week's ceili, but a bit more animated than the average weeknight, at least in William's experience. There was a tremor in the air that he couldn't quite place; a sort of exhilarated tension that both excited and unsettled him. In spite of it – or because of it – his mood was high and his smile bright as he went through the paces behind the bar next to Gerald. Everyone seemed to notice his buoyancy

"Well then, Glasgow, aren't we cheery tonight?" said Andy as he flashed his coin.

"Only happy to see your face again, dear Andy," replied William, snatching up the coin and replacing it with a glass.

Beside Andy, a tall lad named David laughed out loud. "Listen to him, Gerald – the man's turning more Irish every day."

"Aye, that he is," Gerald agreed. "Give him another week and he'll be as silver-tongued as young Adam there."

They all looked over to the table in the back corner where Adam sat sharing a bottle of currant wine with a blue-eyed lass. He had taken to whispering in her ear sometime after the third glass, and her breathy laughter made the lads at the bar shake their heads.

"Sure didn't you have Lizzie yourself once, Andy?" asked David.

"Hell's Bells, no. She's only had eyes for Adam, that one."

David craned his neck to get a better look. She'll have something else for him tonight, I reckon."

"Oi, watch your tongue," snapped an older man. "Elizabeth is a virtuous lass."

"They all are until they meet Adam," said Andy.

William joined in their good humor but kept his eyes away from the table. The embarrassment from his unintentional intrusion had passed, but he still felt an odd uneasiness every time he thought of it. It was a bit puzzling, actually – it certainly wasn't the first time he'd caught someone out, or vice versa. Boarding school will do that to a lad. By the time he got to Cambridge at seventeen he knew all about the ways of the world, and his time in university had only expanded his education. William had always been more open about the subject than most of his mates, and certainly more so than his sister. He scratched his nose to hide a sudden grin, remembering the first time Meg had walked in on him with a lass. That had been the summer of '13, if memory served (and it always did). Jenny had been her name, and what a fiery wee redhead she had been. Margaret's mortification had been most amusing, but not nearly as amusing as when she found him in bed with Jenny's cousin Brian two months later.

No, it definitely wasn't the sex. William was not sure what set him on edge about that night, but whenever he thought of it he could still see that low glitter in Adam's eyes, the grin on his swollen, wet mouth, and it was not an image he wanted to dwell on. The matter seemed to have passed from Adam's recollection entirely – he had not spoken to William at all since that afternoon in the kitchen doorway. Perhaps he had more important things on his mind.

"Did you hear what happened to Tommy Dempsey this morning?" David's voice snapped William out of his thoughts. "They arrested him, so they did, and took him in for questioning by the Brits." A dozen voices raised in disgust; when they calmed down David added, "They had to let him go for lack of proof, of course."

"Proof of what?" someone asked.

"Of being anti-Treaty, dimwit," said Andy.

"Since when is it a crime to be anti-Treaty?" cried a voice.

"Since the Brits declared it to be so," said another.

"Sure they'll have to build more jails just to hold us all!" exclaimed a third, to loud laughter.

"What do you think of it, Gerry?" asked Andy.

"You all know what I think of it," Gerald said. He jerked his thumb toward the fireplace, where a large framed copy of the Proclamation hung straight and polished between the flag and the crucifix. Voices cheered in both English and Irish; when the noise subsided Gerald continued, "Tis a poor time, lads, a poor time indeed. We must all be careful if we wish to keep our hard-won freedom. Watch your steps, my boys, and watch your backs."

"And watch who you trust."

Heads turned to see Shane Kelly hunched at the end of the bar, a full glass between his palms and his dark eyes looking straight into William's. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Gerald frowned.

William scooped up the nearest crate of dirty glasses. "I'd better get these to Mary." He could feel everyone watching him as he turned and headed into the kitchen; as soon as the door closed behind him, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could easily hear Gerald's voice from the other side.

"I'll not have you insulting my staff, Kelly."

"You'd trust him over someone you've known twenty years?"

"Over the likes of you? Too bloody right I would." A few muffled chuckles told William this exchange had been traded before. "I mean what I say, Kelly. You just keep your blood calm, and don't go drawing attention to things as what don't require it. We've got enough on our plates without adding conflict amongst ourselves."

Kelly laughed, a short and ugly sound. "Ourselves? Since when is he one of us?"

"Since he showed up on my doorstep in need of my help," said Gerald. "And if you're not satisfied with my judgment, well then, I might just have to take that as a discourtesy, Shane Kelly."

"Give it a rest, Kelly," said Andy. "What harm's the Prod ever done to you?"

"Piss off, Byrne. I've got no charity to spare for any goddamned English."

"He's not English."

William's eyes snapped open.

"He's Scottish," continued Adam, "and the Irish aren't the only people who've been downtrodden on this earth."

"What, the Scots? They've been London's fucking lapdogs for a hundred years! Fucking partners, they are."

"Really?" Adam's voice was light, but all background noise instantly ceased.

"And do partners make orphans out of fourteen-year-old boys? Do partners leave them lying in the street with bloody gashes in their necks and force them from their homes to send money back to their sisters and serve arrogant Irish bastards like you a pint of beer? Is that what partners do?"

William gripped the crate of glasses until his knuckles throbbed. He did not take a breath until he heard Gerald's voice.

"You should have been a politician, lad. You make a fine dramatic speech, so you do."

"The day I become a politician is the day I change my name to Windsor," replied Adam. "Now take this money and give my friend Shane here another pint. It grieves me to see him so in need of one."

The tension broke with renewed conversation and fresh calls for drinks, the sound of a hand clapping across a back and a chuckling snort of acquiescence from Kelly. William closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall with a little thump as he let out a sigh.

"William?"

He jerked upright at the sound of Mary's voice. She stood in front of him, nearly touching his elbow; somehow he had not heard her approach.

"Are you alright, love?" He saw the regret in her eyes, as well as the apology. He gave her a reassuring smile.

"Oh aye, lass, I was just having a wee nap. It's hard work keeping up with that lot out there."

She returned the smile and reached out to take the crate of glasses from his arms.

"You do it so well though," she said. "We couldn't ask for anyone better."

8.

February 8, 1922

Mary was doing the singing tonight.

William listened to her clear, lilting voice carry across the pub and into the kitchen, where he stood washing out tap nozzles in a pot of soapy water near the sink. He smiled as he worked, his foot tapping in time with her lively rendition of "Black and Tans!". She sang like she talked, spirited and strong, and he could hear the room clapping and cheering her on with the occasional heartfelt – if somewhat profane – shouted agreement. William chuckled to himself as he placed a clean nozzle atop the pile and reached for another; soon he was humming the tune under his breath, swirling his cloth with little splashes through the warm, soapy water. Mary really did have a lovely voice. He was contemplating possible requests when the kitchen door swung open and drew his eyes up from his work. He smiled.

"Well hello, then, Adam, what brings you back here away from the adoring crowds?"

Adam strolled over to the sink, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a half-empty pint. His face was flushed and sweaty from the evening's fraternization, but his walk was still steady at least.

"Gerald's gone downstairs for more whisky," William said. "He'll be back up any moment, I'm sure."

"I wasn't looking for Gerald," said Adam. "I was looking for you."

William cleared his throat. "Were you?"

"I thought I could catch you back here for a moment, whilst everyone else is outside." Adam took a swallow of his beer before continuing. "I wanted to apologize to you for what happened the other night. I know you could hear all too well what Kelly was saying – Lord knows I've spied through that door since I was tall enough to peek through the cracks."

William shook his head. "No bother, right? The man was only saying what everyone else was thinking. I understand. It's alright."

"No, it's not alright." The tone in Adam's voice made William's smile disappear. The merry glint had gone from his eyes, and his voice was quiet but hard. "It wasn't his right to suspect you in public like that, just as it wasn't my place to tell your life's story to all the drunken crowd. I'll ask your forgiveness for that. It wasn't right of me."

William was taken aback. Eventually he said, "It's alright, Adam. My past is no secret, not from those who've been so kind to me. I'm grateful you felt you had to defend me."

"I never do anything I don't want to do," Adam said.

William stared at him in silence. Adam smiled then, and took another gulp from his glass before setting it down on the table. "And that brings me to the other matter I came back here to speak of."

William matched his grin, glad to change the subject, and returned to his work. "Oh, aye? Did you come back here to help me with the washing, then? Very kind of you indeed."

"I came back here to proposition you."

The tap in William's hand squelched between his fingers and hit the water with a loud plop.

"Pardon?"

Adam leaned back on his elbows against the table, stretching lazily and crossing his ankles. He regarded William for a moment, a strange, appraising sort of look replacing his usual smirk.

"Gerald meant to ask you himself, so he did, but he felt maybe someone closer to your own age might be better broaching the subject. I tried to tell him you look closer to his age than my own, but he wouldn't listen."

William wiped the water from his face with one rolled-up shirt cuff and tried not to look as confused as he felt. Adam seemed supremely amused by his reaction.

"You've no clue what I'm on about, have you?"

And then, suddenly, realization blossomed in William's stomach, and he had to keep his confused look in place to prevent the wave of exultation from showing. Surely he was jumping to conclusions. It couldn't possibly be this easy. Could it?

Adam reached past him to pluck a nozzle off the pile and began turning it over in his hand, examining it in the electric light.

"You've no love for the English,." It was a statement, not a question.

Primary rule of the cover story: tell the truth whenever possible. "I'm not particularly fond of them, no."

Adam chuckled. "Well neither are we around this place, as you may have noticed at times." At that exact moment, Mary's song ended in the next room with a roar of applause, and Andy's slurred bellow of fucking wankers! came clear and unmuffled through the wall.

"Aye, I've noticed."

Adam tossed the tap nozzle from one hand to the other, watching it arc through the air between his palms. "Well there are those as bluster in the pub of an evening, when their drink is in them..." The tap flipped from right hand to left. "And then there are those as are willing to discuss things in the light of day." The tap hit his right palm with a little pat. "And those as are tired of talk altogether."

His face had gone queer, his eyes a little too sharp, his grin a little too tight, stretched over something less jovial and more controlled. William's hands went still in the cooling water.

Abruptly Adam straightened, snatching the tap out of mid-air, face crinkling back into breezy amiability. He leaned forward and dropped the tap onto the stack, and William caught a swift breath of sweat and beer.

"There's some of us who meet here on occasion, to do what we can, away from prying eyes and listening ears. We'd like you to join us tomorrow morning, if you would. There are things we would want you to hear."

William wondered who the "we" in that sentence included. Adam himself, obviously, and certainly Gerald as well – likely not many more than that, with the possible exception of Andrew. Who had made the final decision to include him?

At his pause, Adam's voice grew a little softer. "This isn't a strong-arm, Glasgow. You've but to say the word and this conversation never happened. I ask only that you mention what I've said to no one. You understand, I'm certain." He met William's eyes and held them. "We want you, William. We want you with us."

William swallowed. He was caught off guard by the quickness of it all, and William was not a man who was accustomed to being caught off guard. He felt a sudden impulse to drop his eyes from Adam's gaze. This was something else he was not accustomed to, and it was a feeling he found he did not enjoy at all. In defiance of it, he lifted his chin and nodded.

"Aye," he said. "You can count on me there. And you can count on my silence as well."

Adam's face broke into a beaming smile. "Excellent. Knew it, I did." He gave William a slap on the shoulder. "Tis all I ask. That, and that you not hold it against Mary for betraying your confidence. We've told each other all things since childhood. She's seen me through many a tough time, so she has."

"She's a fine lass."

"That she is, that she is indeed. She likes you quite a bit, you know. Fancies you a little, I think."

William's eyes went wide. "Adam, I would never think of _—_ "

Adam laughed out loud until the sound that echoed off the hanging pans. "I know that, Glasgow, I know that. I meant only the positive. You're an honorable man, that's as clear as day. Which is more than I can say for myself." He patted William's cheek, still chuckling, then gave the strings of William's apron a tug.

"You need to relax, boyo. You're far too high-strung. Come out and have a drink with us, yeah? It's Saturday, and the work can wait."

William eyed him for a moment, and then tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. "Help me carry these taps out and we'll call it a deal," he said. "And I'm not buying, either."

Adam laughed again. "A bargaining man!" He picked up his pint and drained it, swaying on his feet at the last swallow. He picked up the tray as William hung his discarded apron on its peg. "You and I shall get on just fine, I can tell."

9.

February 9, 1922

It took William a week or two to realize he spent more time in the pub than was really necessary. His duties required him to help set up for the day, run the occasional errand, man the bar in the evenings, and help clean up after hours, but it wasn't long before The Flag and Three had more or less taken over his existence. More and more frequently he found himself up at daybreak with Gerald, polishing fixtures or picking up deliveries; he helped with the cooking and often did the marketing, and most of the pub's regulars greeted him in the streets now when they saw him. The day he found himself curtain-shopping with Mary was the day he knew he was becoming too invested in this place. Allowing himself to grow too attached would only make things more unpleasant in the end. It was a mistake William had never made before this assignment, and by the time he noticed it was too late.

He tried to pull back, keep himself distant when not on duty and stick to gleaning information for the report which was rapidly filling his notebook, but it wasn't long before he was back in the kitchen, peeling potatoes or reorganizing the pantry shelves. It was sort of inevitable around the Sullivans – you were a part of them whether you wished it or not. William's attempts were half-hearted at best, and soon he gave up altogether. No sense doing things halfway, after all. Making the best of things wasn't exactly sleeping with the enemy.

This morning, however, William was at his work barely after sunrise on a Sunday morning not out of a sense of community pride but because he needed the distraction. He stood behind the bar with the morning sun streaming in on him through the windows, cloth in hand and rubbing at a scratch on the lacquered bar top. He wasn't sure how it had got there, as he had just waxed and polished all the wood in the house the week before, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to with David's fondness for sliding his pints down the bar like he had seen in the nickelodeons. William scrubbed at the scratch with his cloth until the countertop squeaked, his nose moving closer and closer to the surface, his brow knitting into a scowl, refusing to accept defeat.

"Hard at work?"

William looked up, having bent himself nearly prostrate over the offending blemish. He ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

"Early to rise, and all that."

Adam leaned on the jamb of the kitchen door, munching an apple. "Good luck with the early to bed part." He brushed a string of hair beneath his cap and stepped forward into the room. "Ready to go?"

William dropped his cloth on the counter and wiped his hands across his thighs. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Adam met him at the end of the bar and threw an arm about his shoulders. "They'll like you fine, Glasgow – they already do. Nothing to fret."

William followed him to the doorway by the loo and down the stairs to the basement. He had assumed they would meet in the storeroom; it seemed the most logical place. At least he hoped it would be the storeroom – he had no wish to be cloistered with Adam in the liquor cellar, forced to sit on one of those christened crates. Adam walked with one hand in his pocket, jingling the coins there and chomping on his apple like he was on his way to the dance hall on a Friday night. The church bells for Mass rang outside, growing quieter as they descended the stairs and turned to the corridor. The light in the storeroom was on, and William exhaled gratefully.

The storeroom was empty when they entered. William looked at Adam, confused, but Adam merely smiled and walked over to the metal bracket shelving on the nearest wall. He set his apple core on a barrel and leaned forward, reaching between two boxes of baking soda and Dr. Shannon's Digestive Biscuits, his arm disappearing to the shoulder. A few groping movements, tongue poking between his teeth, and there was a loud click which was abruptly matched in William's brain. Adam saw it and grinned.

"Wouldn't be a secret meeting without a secret room, now would it?"

He withdrew his arm, gave the shelf a good tug, and the section pulled open to reveal a narrow passage. Adam leaned on the doorway and gestured with his free hand. "After you."

William ducked his head and walked through the arch – into utter darkness. He stopped up short as the door closed behind him and cut off all light. He barely had time to tense before a hand on his back made him jump and Adam's breath touched his ear, voice low and amused.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. Hang on a sec." Light shone in William's eyes and now Adam was in front of him, opening a second door. Get it together, Young, William thought, and followed him inside.

The room was long and narrow, sandwiched as it was between the storeroom and the wine cellar, low-ceilinged and cramped with unfinished walls and a single naked light bulb hanging in the center. Most of the space had been taken up by a long wooden table, around which sat four men William knew and one he had never seen. They looked up as he and Adam entered, their conversations ceasing, and Gerald stood up to greet them.

"Ah, there you are boys, there you are. Come in and sit. Lads, you all know William, I'm certain."

William nodded at each man in turn – Gerald, Andrew, David, a young man with a tanned face and thick black hair, and finally Kelly, who pointed a finger and scowled out his greeting.

"What the bleedin' hell is he doing here?"

"You know exactly what," snapped Adam, "and exactly why, so shut your _—_ "

"Hold your tongues, both of you, or leave my house," said Gerald. His glare silenced them both. "I will not have fighting in this room." He waited until Kelly gave a grudging nod, then turned to William.

"You already know Andy and Davie," he said, "and the ever-pleasant Master Kelly. The lad on the end there is Daniel Fisher. It's his family owns the bakery shop that you're so fond of."

"Well then," smiled William, as he shook the boy's hand, "Very good to know you indeed."

"Pleasure to meet you, William," replied Daniel.

Gerald smiled. "Have a seat, lads," he said. William and Adam took their places at the nearest chairs, across from Andy and David. Gerald resumed his spot at the head of the table.

"You'll know why we've asked you here, William," he said. Turning to the others, Gerald peered at each face in turn.

"You lads all know William. You know of his story, I'm certain. He may not be Irish, but he's a fighter sure enough, and his father before him." He crossed himself quickly, then went on, "He's as much reason to strike against the English as we, and I mean to give him the chance. Any who oppose that should say so now. That includes you, Kelly – if you can't be civil, I need to know it now."

Beside him, William could see Adam gazing coolly at Kelly from under the shade of his cap. For a moment, no one spoke; then Andy leaned across the table and gave William a slap on the shoulder.

"Right then, Glasgow," he said. He and David and Gerald and Adam and even the Fisher lad were all smiling. And so was William.

"Aye," Gerald said. "Aye. Right." He settled back in his chair.

"You'll know that Andy runs a cargo barge on the Liffey? Young Danny here has a friend or two, hears a bit of news from time to time. When he gets word of a need for transport on the quiet, he comes to us and we move what we can down river, sometimes through the town, sometimes through this room. Nothing complicated – just get things from one set of hands to another, like, to spread the trail a bit."

William tilted his head and looked confused. "Like what kinds of things?"

"Munitions, money, food, supplies _—_ "

"You keep guns in the pub? Isn't that dangerous?"

"Jesus lord, no, I don't keep guns in my pub!" Gerald laughed. "Parts, aye, and ammunition, money a time or two, but gun shipments never stay in one place long enough to be stored here. We run them, sure, but they're needed elsewhere."

"We're not soldiers, Glasgow," said David. "We're not running the IRA from the back room of a pub. We're a few working men doing what we can. No one here is particularly anxious to get himself hanged."

"Well, maybe Kelly," said Andy, and everyone laughed. Kelly cracked a dark grin.

"I just like to see things done myself," he said.

"You just like to see things blown to Kingdom Come," said Adam, and his face had shaken off its wary shadow. Kelly gave him a sly wink, and the two of them grinned at each other.

Gerald shook his head. "Don't take no notice of those two. These young hotheads today are itching to get themselves on hero's posters. It isn't enough that every lad around this neighborhood craves a kind look from any of them, and young Elliot here swaggering about like the Second Coming."

Adam laughed with the rest of them, but William saw a faint flush touch his cheeks as he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets.

Gerald looked at William plainly. "So that's the way of it, Glasgow, and now you know. We've got a job needs doing – it's not much, but it's all we can do. And we would have you with us."

At this point, Daniel leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. "There's a large shipment of munitions arriving from Germany on the second of March. It's far too large to avoid the wrong eyes, so it's being divided into small batches. Andy's to pick up a share on the night of the fifth – we'll be meeting him at the docks with my father's lorry."

"What about the police?" said William. "Won't they be patrolling the docks?"

"Nah, we've no worry from the police," said Adam. "They don't care what they see – hell, half of them would aid us if they could. Anyway, there's men loading and unloading at all hours down there. There's no reason to look any closer at a bakery truck and a couple of lads."

"Tis the army you have to look out for," said David. His gentle face crinkled with disgust.

"Irish fighting Irish," said Kelly. "Fucking shameful."

Gerald raised a hand for quiet. "There's nothing to it, lad," he said to William. "But aye, I won't lie, there's always a chance. And I won't be going with you – I'll be waiting here. So you'll have to go alone with this ragged lot." He smiled at the men around the table with open affection, which they all returned; and then he looked toward the door and raised his voice.

"With not even Mary to protect you." There was a tiny thump from outside, and the second door creaked. "Aye, you may as well come in, lass, you're fooling no one."

William turned to see Mary's blue eyes blinking from around the corner. She stepped into the room, cobwebs on her face and her shoes in her hand. Her hair was slowly escaping its braid; she brushed it back from her freckled forehead and tried to look nonchalant.

"Er, aye, well, I _—_ I thought to see if you lot were wanting some tea, or some such." Her cheeks growing pink, she avoided Adam's eyes as well as her father's and said instead, "Hello William."

"Mary," said William, thoroughly amused.

"No daughter, we're all fine here, though it's touched we are at your concern." Gerald was smirking, but his brows were creased a little too deeply. "You're supposed to be at Mass, girl."

"Well it got out early, then, didn't it?" Mary said, her composure returning. "The good father hadn't as much to preach about without his target audience." She grinned pertly at the boys as they laughed.

"Lord help us, I don't know where I got such a saucy minx for a daughter," said Gerald. "Do you run upstairs where you belong and see about some lunch. We're finished here, anyway, so there's naught else for you to hear."

They all stood, chairs scraping on the concrete floor, and began to file out of the cramped little room. William stepped back against the wall to let them pass; Daniel nodded politely, Kelly ignored him entirely. David and Andy were searching for the cigarettes in David's jacket. William followed them toward the brighter light of the storeroom. On the other side of the doorway, Mary touched his sleeve.

"William," she said, then stopped.

"Aye, lass?"

She looked up at him, hesitant. "If...if you _—_ "

Adam came through the arch and walked between them, plucking his abandoned apple core off the barrel as he passed. "Mornin', Mary," he said, pinching her on the cheek, and grinned at them both before moving on.

Mary watched him go, his coins jingling in his pockets, David and Andy chattering behind him. She turned back to William, and her eyes had gone pale in the morning light.

"Look after him, William," she said, and hurried up the stairs in their wake.

10.

February 16, 1922

The oil lamp burned low on the dresser, but William had long since stopped tracking the time. He sat on the floor with his legs curled beneath him, leaning on one elbow across the bed that served double duty as his writing desk. His briefcase lay open next to its hiding place, its contents spread across the red gingham quilt. The pencil in William's hand was crimped with several rows of small, neat teeth marks; his head rested in his palm, forefinger twirling a strand of hair in a slow, constant loop as he tapped the pencil against his front teeth in concentration.

He had been revising his write-up for hours. No detail was left out, no matter how small – every scrap of information he had gathered over the past month arranged into one precise, well-ordered report, all his stolen knowledge laid out and notated until no gap or loophole remained. Considering the short span of time, it was without a doubt the best piece of work William had ever produced; and yet his pencil continued to move, long after the house had gone silent around him and the cold came creeping through the black square of the window.

It would be time soon to think of a good exit story.

Perhaps his sister could be ill – that was always a reliable option. His unknown situation could somehow be cleared back home, or even better, some new threat could arise which would demand his immediate return. Specifics were not necessary, really, only something that would grant him an honorable escape.

Of course, with the assignment being so far from Glasgow, William did have the option of simply disappearing. This was not an idea he fancied at all. As much as he had tried to steel himself against it, he had made the fundamental error of becoming too comfortable, both in his new environment and with the people in it. He would miss Gerald, and Mary, and even Andy and the other lads; it was an unfortunate mistake, but there was no help for it now. The best course of action would be to make the break as quick and clean as possible, and the sooner the better. If he got this report right, that break would come very soon indeed. William chewed his bottom lip, thinking, and scribbled a few more lines into the margin of his paper.

They were all mistaken – it was no crime to be anti-Treaty. Even if it were, that would be up to the Irish government to deal with, not William's superiors. The Crown did not rule Ireland anymore; surely the MI5 only wanted to ensure there would be no more violence against innocent civilians. That was why William had been assigned here – because he knew what kind of toll pointless violence took.

He thought of the Director, well-tailored and sneering behind his polished desk. Christopher was merely an effete bastard, a bitter old Tory who didn't appreciate being sent far from home to deal with someone else's problem. William could relate to that last bit, at any rate. Serve your country well, Young. William sniffed. He was not interested in serving Lord Director Christopher, or the MI5, or anyone else for that matter – he only wanted to make things better and then go home to his family. Gerald would understand that, even if he could not forgive it.

He had all the evidence he needed to prove that Gerald and his group were not terrorists of any kind. These men were nothing more than a few poor workers doing minor munitions runs to feel like they were supporting their cause. One good raid would scare them out of their delusions of grandeur and put an end to their illegal activities once and for all. William had seen it many times. After the raid there would be no danger for the Sullivans or their folk, not if they cooperated and then stayed out of trouble. He doubted that would be the case for Kelly, but that was no great loss. No one else would be arrested unless they brought it upon themselves. And Adam wouldn't be that stupid.

William frowned. Where had that come from? He put down his pencil and rubbed his grainy eyes. The late hour was clearly muddling his thinking. He should have been asleep hours ago. Sighing, he laid his head down on his outstretched arm and looked back across the pages he had written. The cramped writing blurred a little in his tired vision.

This whole assignment left a bad taste in his mouth. He was not usually so eager to explain away every detail. He had nothing to justify. When people supported violence, they got arrested. That was the law. That was justice. But William could remember another time, another group who faced justice because of information he had stolen from them. He had not acted fast enough, and when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sharp crackle of shots echoing in the street. Labor men, they'd been – communists, dissidents, all lined up along a wall and shot at sunrise in the same street they had attempted to take over. He could see it all so clearly: sunlight glinting off broken store windows, white smoke curling up from empty rifle barrels, dark blood congealing in pools on dirty cobblestones. The wind whistling through the barren streets, sheets of paper scattering across empty pavement, and somewhere Meg was crying again.

William knew he was dreaming, knew it from the vague and watery cast to the sun and the way his feet didn't really move and yet he was going forward, through the lingering smoke, shading his eyes against the bitter light. Everyone was gone, nothing left but the whispering wind and the rattle of spent shells and the shapes lying still and crumpled in crooked angles against the wall, one for each rusty smear across the brick. Too late, he thought, too late, sorry, I'm so sorry, and all he wanted was to turn and run, run and run until his feet burnt off and crumbled away but he could not turn back, every step brought him closer, and every breath brought him the thick metallic stench of fresh death.

They lay together as if sleeping, backs bent around their bound hands and chests pushed up into the light, crimson stains smelling coppery in the air. White faces slack and peaceful, all of them, all but one – too late he saw brown hair ruffling beneath a crooked cap and he could not move, could not draw back from the empty glass of dead gray eyes. He fell to his knees; his fingers smeared red trails across one cold cheek, and the cap fell away and Adam stared at him with his unseeing eyes and his blood-stained mouth parted with the trace of a final, eternal grin. No, William thought, no no please I didn't want this, not this, not him, stop it stop it William wake up _—_

Adam's eyes snapped lucid just before his hand clamped around William's wrist. He smiled, pale and bloody. "Hello, William," he said, white lips cracked over pink teeth and William stumbled back in horror but could not pull free, and when he fell backward the bricks dissolved into black and Adam was standing, pulling him to his feet and spinning him to his back, pinning him to the shelves, bottles tinkling in their racks, no longer pale but flushed and sweating, and his mouth did not taste like blood but like dark sweet wine.

William jerked and flung himself from the bed. He looked around for a single wild moment, until the panic began to drain from his chest. He drew the back of a shaking hand across his mouth and listened for echoes in the silence – no, he had not screamed after all. He turned then and swept up all his notes and papers, crumpling them as he stuffed them into his briefcase and shoved it back into its hiding place. The bed creaked beneath his weight and he dropped his head into his hands, bracing his elbows on his knees until the tremors stopped. His erection pressed painfully into his stomach, hard and throbbing with his slowing heartbeat, and he knew better than to close his eyes. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He needed air.

He stood abruptly and groped for his shoes. The nightmare had already begun to dissolve, fading in the chilly night air – everything but the feel of long fingers digging into his shoulders, a rough mouth hot against his own. William rubbed his face, and when he drew them back he almost thought he saw blood on their palms. His mouth went hard then, and he reached for his coat and blew out the lamp before slipping down the stairs without waking a soul. Yet another useful trick from his boarding school days.

He did not come back until morning.

11.

February 17, 1922

The black-haired girl was not in the office today. The receptionist behind the desk was blond, and thinner, with a perm as stiff and an expression as pungent as the smell of furniture polish permeating the front hall. She ignored William's presence until the clock struck precisely ten; when the tenth chime finished she looked up and said, "You may go in now," and then returned to her typing.

William tried his favorite tactic – a smile and a light "Thank you, love" – and was met with a blank stare and one slightly raised, severely plucked eyebrow. The smile disappeared, and it did not return during the entire twenty minutes William sat waiting in front of Lord Christopher's mahogany desk.

The Director perused every page in the file before him, his spectacles propped on the bridge of his sharp nose. William looked at his own handwriting upside-down on the desk – all his notes, lists, even a handy diagram, plus the original briefing packet dotted with dates and filled-in margins. The Director read through every bit, page by methodical page, all without a single word; his face remained impassive while William's back began to ache in the red velvet chair and he put his hands in his jacket pockets to prevent them from fidgeting.

The morning outside was overcast and frigid. Tiny, fragile snowflakes had begun to collect on the panes of the great bay windows. William wondered if the snow would stick this time or if it would just melt again, spreading into piles of muddy slush by mid-afternoon. Either way he'd be shoveling the front step tonight for sure, or one of the lads was bound to end up with a broken skull. He _—_

"This is everything, I trust?"

William flinched, but the Director was still looking down at the papers, oblivious to his wandering thoughts. He cleared his throat. "Yes sir, it is."

The Director tapped the papers into a stack and collected each stray paperclip. He pushed his spectacles into place with one forefinger.

"This would seem to be adequate," he said.

William allowed his face to go stiff; Christopher wasn't looking at him anyway. The past six weeks sat in a neat little pile on the blotter – his transplanted life, sleepless nights and careful days, an empty box of pencils and a photographic memory. Adequate.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

Christopher picked through the top sheets a bit, looking back at the list of names. His gold pen remained untouched on the desk. The grandfather clock ticked endlessly in the corner, until finally William could bear the silence no longer.

"They're not organized, sir. They know nothing of the larger movements, or even the names of the people they aid – they won't be able to lead you to any major factions. I don't feel this avenue is productive enough to continue pursuing, if I may say, sir."

He ran out of words, and the silence resumed. Christopher showed no sign of having heard a sound. He took a sip from his brandy snifter, slid the stack of papers neatly into their file, and the folder disappeared into the bottom desk drawer with a subtle click.

"Continue surveillance as ordered and record any events you may witness. That will be all."

William blinked twice. "Sir?"

The Director removed his spectacles and held them up to the light; he blew a bit of dust off one lens and began wiping it carefully with his handkerchief. "Was there some part of that sentence which was unclear to you?"

William's confusion overrode his tongue. "Aren't you _—_ I mean, won't there be a raid, sir?"

Christopher slid his spectacles into his breast pocket and looked at William for the first time since he entered the office. "No, there will not. I have no intention of raiding that munitions pickup, and I have never had any intention of doing so." Seeing the expression that flooded William's face, the Director threaded his fingers together on the desktop and curled his mouth into a sour line.

"Allow me to explain something to you, agent. This office is an agency of His Majesty's Empire, not some local village constable. I am not interested in the petty trading of illiterate hatchet men. I want to know who is pulling the strings. I want to know whose devotion belongs to De Valera rather than Collins. These intractable zealots are the reason I am trapped in this godforsaken runt of a nation, and I intend to stamp them out with everything that is in my power. Am I making myself clear to you?"

William stared at him, aghast.

"You will go back to these people, and you will stay with them. You will accompany them on their little endeavors. You will aid them, and you will build their confidence. Nothing will be done to hinder you. I have agents in every corner of this city, and I know that something larger is coming. In time, one of you will learn what that something is. You will report it to me. And I will reel every fish into my net, great and small alike, in one pull. I shan't fill the jails; I shall fill the gallows. And I will be the Director who brought order to Dublin."

Christopher shifted in his chair, and some of the bitter light faded from his eyes. "You are a promising agent, Young. You take orders without question, and you know your place despite your education." He gave William a thin, brittle smile. "I would imagine you harbor dreams of sitting on this side of the desk one day, yes? Detective Chief Inspector Young, making safe the streets of your precious Glasgow?" He reached for his brandy snifter and regarded William over its rim. "I can help you with that."

William thought for a moment that he might be sick. He gripped the arms of the chair until the wave of nausea passed. He thought of the "illiterate hatchet men" with whom he had spent the past six weeks – people who were merely means to Christopher's ambitious ends, tools to be used and discarded when broken. He looked at the Director's face and, for the first time since he had been given this assignment, William felt afraid. His nightmare flashed into life behind his eyes, and he blinked to clear his mind of that pale waxy face. He had no choice now but to stay where he was. But one thing was certain: he would find a way keep these people from whatever larger danger was to come, out of harm's way and out of Christopher's firing line.

As soon as he finished the thought, guilt hit William square in the chest. This was double-dealing, duplicity – disobeying the spirit of his orders, if not the letter. It was not the behavior of a keeper of the law. But it was the only way, if this thing was to end as it should – he must ensure no more damage was one. He had no choice. On the heels of the guilt came a surge of inexplicable anger, until William's knuckles went white on the arms of the chair against his rising fury.

Christopher arched an eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Mister Young?"

The space between William's eyes throbbed with a single, brilliant pain. He blinked it back, and pressed his lips together until he felt capable of speaking safely.

"No, sir. No problem."

"Excellent. I will expect something more substantial from you the next time we meet."

William thought one more time of his work sitting in the cavernous desk drawer. He watched Christopher sip his brandy, and then he removed himself from the chair and smoothed down his jacket.

"Understood, Director," he said, and walked out without waiting to be dismissed.

12.

March 5, 1922

The area along the Liffey docks was a crowded maze of narrow streets and back alleys between the rows of warehouses strung along the quay. William crept along one of these paths, watching David's back and occasionally glancing into the darkness around them. The alley David led him through was cramped and lightless, lined with assorted rubbish and smelling of fish and piss, biting cold with the wind coming off the river. It was eerily quiet; not a dog barking, not a rodent scurrying, only the occasional muted clang of a far-off buoy's bell and the faint, constant lapping of water against wood. William shivered in his jacket and tried not to stumble over the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet.

"Come on, Glasgow," David whispered, and William turned up his collar and kept up the pace.

They emerged from the alley and the river appeared, wide and empty and shining black in the light of a nearly-full moon. Boats of varying sizes stood tied along the wooden docks: fishing skiffs, cargo barges, and ferry tugs, mostly. Other than their hulking shapes, the quay was utterly deserted, only a few streetlamps casting dim circles of light onto the pavement. William looked around, his brow creasing.

"Where are they?" he whispered.

"Right behind you," said a chipper voice.

Adam approached from a separate path, strolling toward them with his arms crossed against the cold and a smile on his wind-flushed face. Kelly skulked along behind him, shoulders hunched, dark eyes scowling into every corner and open doorway. He had one gloved fist beneath his jacket, gripped around a bulky shape.

David grinned as Adam approached. "Fair night for a stroll, eh Elliot?"

"So it is, Master Murphy, so it is."

They made no attempt to lower their voices, and William surveyed the area once more. They had passed not a single patrol along the way, and the few beat cops they encountered had tipped their hats and bid them good evening without so much as a second glance. Nothing will be done to hinder you, Christopher had said, and it appeared to be true.; still, William couldn't quite force his shoulders to relax beneath all his layers of clothing.

"Alright, Glasgow?" said Adam. He clapped William on the shoulder, smiling. "Don't look so tense, mate. There's nothing to it. A quick shift of boxes and you'll be warm and snug in your bed before you know it."

William did not reply; he was watching Kelly peer down the alleys, cigarette dangling from his mouth, his right hand shrouded by the shape in his jacket. Adam shook his head and spoke in William's ear.

"Pay no mind to him. He always expects the worst – or hopes for it, more like. Come on."

William followed them down the quay to a small dock beneath an extinguished street lamp. Two vessels were anchored to the moorings: a smallish skiff, clean but unfancy, with an Irish Tricolour draped from the mast; and a larger, whitewashed cargo ship decorated with several international markings. Both were lit from within.

From the street behind them came a thin grinding noise growing steadily louder – the sound of an approaching automobile. William turned to see a black Model T lorry pulling up to the dock. It had a large, tarp-covered back and silver-gilt letters painted across the side: Fisher's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods.

"There you are, dosser!" Adam called as the lorry's headlamps went dark. The door opened and Daniel hopped out from the driver's seat, clad in the same fine gray suit William had last seen him in, his black hair slicked perfectly into place.

"Didn't have to get all dolled up for us, now, love," said David. "Though we're flattered, to be sure."

"I had an engagement, if you must know," Daniel replied, dusting off his trousers. "You ought to appreciate the sacrifices I make for you all."

David shook his head in mock dismay. "Stealing our good Christian women to your heathen charm."

"I leave that to young Adam here," grinned Daniel. "He has enough heathen charm for both of us."

Everyone greeted Daniel warmly, and he shook William's hand with a pleasant smile. "Hello, Mr. Young. Fine evening for a delivery, isn't it?"

Despite his tension, William grinned. He liked the Fisher lad very much. "So they tell me."

"Alright, alright, you lot," called a voice. "We haven't got all night, you know. Stop your jabbering and start your lifting."

Andy stood on the gangplank of his ship, frowning sleepily with his arms crossed against his chest and his breath puffing out in the cold. Beside him stood another man, taller, older, with dark hair slicked back from his forehead and a toothy smile that he flashed at each man in turn.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, in a voice thick with an accent William couldn't quite place.

"Hans is our contact with the suppliers in Germany," Adam explained. "Kind of a go-between, like. Hans, this is William. He'll be helping us out tonight."

Hans ducked his head politely, and William gave him a nod.

"Right, lovely, we're all friends, isn't that grand," grumbled Andy. "Now let's get this show on the road so that I can get back to my bed."

Hans gestured to his cargo hold. "Step into my parlor."

"Half into my hold and half onto Fisher's lorry," said Andy. "Can you manage that without mussing your fine trousers, Danny?"

Daniel was rolling up the tarp on the back of the truck. "I'll remember that the next time you're asking for a ride home," he said, and David and Adam chuckled.

Something clattered in the alley – every man whirled where he stood. Kelly threw open his jacket and pulled out the rifle he'd been fondling, instantly poised and squinting down the barrel. Adam's smirk vanished; his face went hard, eyes sharp and glittering, and when the noise came a second time he reached into his coat and withdrew a sawed-off shotgun. He cocked the hammer with one thumb – chk-chk. William's heart began to pound. No one moved or made a sound.

The clattering came again, and a shadow moved along the mouth of the alley. From out of the blackness rolled a small object – a crumpled tin can. Behind it followed a grubby little boy and a small black terrier.

William felt the men relax before he heard their exhaled breaths. Six sets of shoulders dropped in relief as the boy continued kicking his tin along the cobblestones, the dog skipping at his heels. He stopped abruptly when he saw the group, and frowned.

"What you lot doin?"

"Oi, clear out of here, lad," said Adam. "Tis too late at night for young boys to be out on the streets."

"You're out on the streets," replied the kid, "and you look like a boy to me."

Daniel snickered.

"Go on, off with you," Andy called. "Go find someplace else to loiter."

The boy jerked his chin. "What if I don't wanna?"

Kelly moved forward, but Adam blocked him with one arm. He stepped out from the group and walked slowly toward the boy, whose eyes went wide when he saw the shotgun clutched in Adam's fist. With his free hand, Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a shining coin. He held it in front of the boy's face, distracting him from the gun. The child looked from him to the others, then at the coin, and gasped.

"Are you outlaws?"

Adam's face was a grave scowl. "Aye," he said, his voice low and raspy. "We are. Now clear out of here and tell no one what you have seen this night, and perhaps we will forget that we ever saw you."

The boy's eyes grew round and enormous. Adam tucked the coin into one filthy little hand and patted him on the head. The child stood there for a moment, awestruck, and then turned and tore off into the night, his dog clambering along behind him.

Adam retained his scowl until the lad was out of sight around the corner, and then it cracked and broke up into a fit of giggles as David, Andy and Kelly all laughed themselves red-faced behind him. Hans and Daniel looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and returned to stacking boxes for loading. William watched them all, still wary, but his tension slowly began to ebb.

Kelly shoved his rifle back into his coat, still grinning. "Quit mucking about," he said to Adam. "Let's get this done."

"Put it back in your trousers, Jesse James," David smirked.

Adam winked at him and uncocked the shotgun, tucking it smoothly back into his jacket. A breeze ruffled the strands of hair peeking from beneath his gray cap, and William shuddered and went back to his work with extra energy.

Adam nudged him on the shoulder. "You alright, Glasgow? Sorry if we startled you. There's naught to worry about."

"I'm fine," said William.

"Leave him be, Adam," Andy said. "You probably upset him, waving your guns about foolishly like that. William's not used to that sort of thing."

William kept his eye on his lifting and said nothing.

After that they got to work in earnest; it took about a quarter hour to get everything sorted. When the boxes were all loaded, David took a step back and surveyed the job, wiping his brow on one sleeve.

"There now, right as rain. Let's get ourselves to the pub before the sweat freezes on our backs."

Hans gave them all a little bow. "Good evening, gentlemen. Always a pleasure to work with you. I hope to see you again soon."

"Obliged, mate," Adam said. "Tell your boss these will be put to good use."

Hans grinned. "Too bad you do not know by whom."

"Aye – I prefer my neck unstretched and my head without extra holes."

Andy was already heading for his gangway. "I'll see you lot in two days," he said. "I've got a shipment to make before I get this month's pay. Some of us actually work for a living." He reached for the door, stifling an enormous yawn, as the others called out their good-nights. When the ship's lights went dark, the rest of the men turned to each other.

"I suppose you'll want to ride with me?" Daniel said. "Or would you prefer to walk on this fine Dublin evening?"

The wind picked up with a gust and Kelly snapped, "Bugger that, I'm with you."

"Me too," said David, "And I'm in the front. Let Adam and Glasgow ride in the back."

"I see how it is," Adam said. "I'll remember that when next it's buying time."

David and Kelly were already climbing into the lorry, grinning. Adam called "Bastards!" after them, chuckling, then turned to William and gestured to the rolled-up tarp at the back of the lorry.

"After you, sir, I insist."

William climbed in with Adam behind him, and the Model T drove off into the darkness.

William found a place to sit between two boxes. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged himself against the frigid drafts blowing in through gaps in the tarp, whipping loose cords as the lorry sped through the streets. There was no light in the back; only the occasional streetlamp filtered through for a moment and winked out again when it passed. William's eyes had just begun to adjust to the darkness when a flash of orange light made him squint; the small space began to glow as Adam cupped his hands to his face and lit up a cigarette.

"Should you really be doing that in here?" William said.

Adam shook out the match and took a long, lazy drag. "I'm not completely stupid, Glasgow," he said. White smoke drifted up from between his lips. "There's only the gun parts in here. Someone else will be getting the ammo." Looking at William's face, Adam plucked the smoke from his mouth and held it out. "Here – it'll warm you up."

William took the cigarette gratefully. It was a hand-rolled smoke, smelling of sweet-spiced tobacco; William took a long drag and held the smoke in his lungs until his fingers began to tingle, then handed the cigarette back to Adam and exhaled into the air between them.

"Cheers," he said.

They fell silent as the lorry jostled along. William curled around himself, shivering beneath his coat and pondered what he had just witnessed. The German's words confirmed what William already knew: this group knew nothing of the big picture. William watched Adam smoke his cigarette. The boy was a leader, that much was certain. He had all three Cs – charisma, cockiness, and charm – but he was not the money-runner William had first taken him for. He thought of the bank notes on the bar the night they met, the coins perpetually jingling in Adam's pockets. Adam dressed neatly but not expensively; he bought lasses flowers but not diamonds. He had money, and he was not using it. Where was it going?

"Why do you do this?"

Adam looked as surprised by the question as William was himself. He had his knees drawn up and his arms crossed atop them, his cigarette dangling from his fingers; his head rested against the box behind him and lolled a bit with the swaying of the truck.

"I have my reasons," he said.

William was immediately sorry he had spoken. The cold must be affecting his brain. "I'm sorry – it's none of my business."

To his surprise, Adam smiled. He took a final puff of his cigarette, stubbed it out on the floor and flicked it through a flap in the tarp. He blew out the last thin stream of smoke and regarded William calmly.

"Why do you do it?"

William thought of the stacks around them: unmarked crates of varying sizes, each branded with Fisher's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods. He thought of Gerald and Mary waiting for them back at the pub. He thought of the folder in Lord Christopher's desk and the brand new notebook beneath the floorboard in his room. He thought of David's quiet voice: It's the army you have to look out for.

"This is the only way I can make it worthwhile." he said.

Adam's face took on that inscrutable expression. He glanced at the scar on William's neck, and William let him; then he nodded and rested against the box again.

"Aye," he said.

13.

23 March, 1922

Dearest Meg,

I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sorry it has been so long since last you heard from me. I meant to write to you sooner, but things have been quite busy around here these past few weeks. I scarcely get a moment to myself anymore. It's no excuse, I know – I expect a full reprimand the next time I see you. I only hope my chastisement will come soon. I trust my last wire reached you with no delay – if you didn't receive it, go to the office and they will advance you until I return. I know you don't need it, but please, humour your brother and take it anyway so that I might feel that I at least tried to take care of you while I'm away.

This assignment has lasted much longer than I expected. I'm not sure how much longer it may go on, but it looks as if I will be here for some time more – a few weeks at least. I'm sorry for it, but it can't be helped. I cannot leave until my duty is done. I know that you understand. And it's true, my confinement could be much worse. Dublin is becoming quite familiar to me, and its people welcome friends. It's colder lately than I would like – no worse than Glasgow, of course, but being far from home makes the chill go a bit deeper. It looks like spring will be here soon, though – the snow has stopped, at any rate. I'll be glad of it. Being cooped up indoors in the cold puts people on edge. I'm counting on the warmer weather to bring the work in and give folks something to keep themselves out of trouble. Get them back to providing for their families, remind them of what is really important. Then I can get away from here all the sooner.

I do hate that I must write to you in riddles, Sis. The truth of it is, I could really use your advice right now. More and more these days I wish I could sit and talk with you as we used to. You have a clearer head than mine, a way of putting things so sensibly whenever I think too much. I could use that sense on nights like this. I've always known why I keep doing this, year after year, when I'd rather be at home with my family. I always thought I was needed, you know? That I was doing something no one else could do – that making any place better would make every place better. I had things figured out so simply, but it isn't really like that, is it? You always knew that. You always saw. I can't trust what I see now, Meg, and how I wish you were here to show me.

This thing is not what I had imagined, not by half. I'm in it too deep and I fear I'm not thinking as plainly as I should. I don't know how I let it happen. I don't know why this time should be any different. But it is. It is different. I wish you could know them, Sis. You would feel the same, I'm sure of it. There is one boy – I wish you could meet him. I am a man who has based his life around the certainty of right and wrong. The lines have been drawn for me since I was very small. But all those lines are blurring now. Nothing is certain anymore. And you know I have never done well with uncertainty.

I'm sorry, Meg. I shouldn't be going on so. I'm afraid I have let this letter get away from me. I don't mean to frighten you or make you worry. I'm alright, really I am. It's just a bit too late at night for musing, I think, especially on things that cannot be helped. Likely I will toss this page in the fire and start another. Or better yet, wait until tomorrow.

If nothing else, I think this assignment is the final sign that I have had enough of this kind of life. If I can just handle this thing right, our future will be assured. I must keep my focus on that and not allow anything else to get in the way. Make the best of it while I can, and hope that when the time comes, I will know the right thing to do. You've always seen that in me as well.

Give my love to the lasses. Kiss them for me, and don't let them forget their Uncle William. Tell them if they are good, I shall bring them back a faerie. They deserve better than what we had, Meg. Tell them I am doing this for them.

All my love,

William

14.

March 29, 1922

"I think we've finally seen the last of the winter," Adam said.

"I won't be sad to see it go," William replied.

The morning air was crisp, but the sky was blue and fair as they strolled through the Saturday market. The weather had brought out the crowds: men standing around lamp posts, passing the news and lighting cigars; women idling among the stalls, sizing up the merchandise and the latest gossip; young people arm in arm about the flower stands; children rolling hoops through the streets, calling to each other over the disapproving stares of old women. It was a pleasant scene, a good scene, one that warmed William as much as the spring sun.

"You're awfully chipper this morning," Adam said, grinning.

William looked up into the sunlight and smiled. "I am."

Weeks had passed since the Liffey run without incident of any kind. Daniel had stopped by the pub three days after, and leaned over the bar to whisper into Gerald's ear before sharing a pint with Adam and a dance with a yellow-haired lass. The next night, after closing, William heard a truck pull up to the kitchen door; he, Gerald, and Adam pulled the boxes from the basement and loaded them onto the back of a lorry that drove away into the night and left the three of them shivering in the alley. Since then there had been no more secret meetings in the basement room, no more whispered exchanges between Adam and Gerald. Even Kelly's wary glare had begun to ease. William worked his tap and saved his coin and danced with a lady or two whenever Adam managed to pry him from his duties. The days went by; the snow melted, and the gray sky turned blue. It was easy to forget anything was amiss.

They had brought Ruan along on their outing; Adam had the lead wrapped twice around his wrist and his hand tucked snug in his jacket pocket. The setter trotted along ahead of them, joyfully sniffing everyone and everything that crossed their path; he stopped to lick an apple core in the gutter, and William snapped his fingers.

"I'd best get those apples Mary was wanting or she'll have my hide. Let's go back to that stand on the corner, aye?"

William picked through the piles of winter apples and tossed worthy specimens into a sack. The lad behind the stand greeted them both by name, then turned back to the girl he was chatting with. Adam leaned against the awning pole, watching William turn each apple in his hands.

"How is it, then, William?"

The use of his name made William look up in surprise. He paused before returning to his inspection.

"It's good. It's really good." He was surprised by the sincerity in his voice, even more so when he realized how much he meant what he said.

He had not touched the floorboard in his bedroom for three weeks. As the days went by, the anger had drained from the memory of his report in the Director's office. Christopher was mistaken, that was all; he was upset over all the bloodshed in his jurisdiction and had allowed his wrath to cast its net a little too wide. William was as certain as ever that his friends were not part of the "something bigger" the Director seemed convinced was coming. William would make sure they never were. He was no longer a spy – now he was a guardian.

He would find out where the real trouble lay, report it, and when it was all over he would go home; and until then, he would make the best of his temporary life. It wasn't so hard an assignment. William held up the apple in his hand and smiled at his reflection in the shiny surface. The reflection smiled back.

Adam clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it, Glasgow. I knew you would fit right in, so I did. I thought it the first time I saw you. You looked like you could use some good, and if there's anyone to give out good in this world, it's Gerald and Mary."

"Aye. They're good people."

"So are you, Will."

William turned to look at him. Adam left his hand on William's shoulder for a moment longer, then let it fall to his pocket. He drew out his own wallet and, before William could protest, pulled out a paper note and gave it to the boy. William chuckled as they walked away, tugging Ruan behind them.

"What's funny?" said Adam.

"Nobody ever calls me Will."

"But William is so serious. You've too much spirit in you for a name like that."

William shrugged and pulled an apple from the sack. "It's my name, as Adam is yours. We only get the one, you know."

"Now that's where you're wrong – I was confirmed Adam Joseph Augustine." He plucked the apple from William's hand and took an enormous bite. "I just don't like to brag about it, is all."

"Yes, I've always thought you were the soul of modesty."

They came to a display of hats, dandy little things in the latest styles of pressed felt. William picked one off the table and propped it on top of Adam's cap. "Well, your head can still fit in a hat, anyway."

Adam swatted his hand away, laughing. He set his apple down and took off the hat, turning it over in his hands. "Nice, very nice. You've got some taste, Glasgow."

William grinned. "Go on then, take it home. I'll bet Sarah Reilly will be suitably impressed."

Adam glanced at him from the corner of one eye. He put the hat back on the table and examined its companions, drawing his finger across the rows of black and gray felt. "Oh? And what makes you think I'd be wanting to impress Sarah Reilly?"

William considered saying the first thing that came to his mind, but instead he went the tactful route. "You're sweethearts, aren't you?" Smirking, he added, "She seems to have the most claim on you, at any rate."

"Aye, well." Adam smiled with fond affection. "She's a good, kind-hearted lass, Sarah. We've been close for many years now. I've been looking out for her since her brother died these three years past, God rest him." He crossed himself quickly.

William's smirk vanished. "I'm sorry. Were you mates, then?"

"Aye, since we were lads. Daft little bugger got himself shot throwing rocks at the army. He never did know when to pick his fights." His forefinger touched one of the ribbons dangling in front of his face. "He was only eighteen."

William started to speak, but Adam shook his head. "I told his mother I'd watch after Sarah and keep her out of danger, and I've done so to this day. It was the least I could do for Kevin." He looked at William, and his good humor returned. "I've been taking care of her ever since."

"And does her mother know how you've been 'taking care of her'?"

Adam picked up his apple and took a bite. "I take care of her the same way I took care of her brother," he said, and left William gaping by the row of hats.

By the time William collected himself and caught up, Adam was guiding Ruan along the pavement, smiling. "Aye, she'll make someone a fine wife someday, but it shan't be me."

"Not a marrying man?"

"No, I don't think so. I love the lasses, Lord knows, but I never found one I could see myself spending the rest of my life with."

"Maybe you just haven't met the right one yet."

"Maybe not."

William became aware of a faint sound, like wind chimes, and looked across the lane. In a sunny corner an elderly woman sat beside a little stall full of rows and rows of hanging beads clattering together in the breeze. William could see crosses swinging among the strands and realized they were all rosaries.

The old woman looked up when William's shadow fell across her. Her eyes were filmed over with thick white cataracts, but she smiled and said, "God bless you, my boy. Tis a lovely morning, isn't it?"

William was amazed. "Did you make all these?"

"Aye, every one."

He reached out and touched the nearest strand. The beads were small, green and white, some kind of polished glass with a cross of what looked like ivory or white shell. A small circular knot had been carved in the center of the cross. William slid his thumb over the delicate pattern.

"Need a prayer to be said for your soul, then, Glasgow?"

He turned to see Adam standing next to him. "It's beautiful," he said. "Unfortunately I wouldn't know what to do with it, being..."

"A Prod?" Adam grinned. "Well you know what they say, nobody's perfect."

William chuckled and went back to examining the beads. "A Prod," he said, testing the word on his tongue. "I guess I'm not really much of anything, actually. I've made my own way since I was small. In my experience, after all I've seen, I don't have much reason for faith."

"I don't think that's true – I think you have more than you know, or else you wouldn't keep going. In my experience, after all I've seen, faith is all a man has to hold onto."

William covered his discomfort with sarcasm. "So you've seen everything, then, in your grand long life?"

"I thought I had," Adam said.

William closed his mouth. Adam looked at him for a moment, then smiled and grabbed him around the shoulder. "C'mon Glasgow, let's go get something to eat. Perhaps I'll teach you how to say grace."

William sat on the steps of a tenement building and scratched Ruan's jiggling belly. The dog panted in gratitude and nipped playfully at his sleeve; William cooed at him, listening to the sounds of passers-by and feeling the sun warm on the back of his neck. He looked up to see Adam returning, two white parcels in one hand and a bottle swinging from its wire cap in the other. He sat down beside William and handed him one of the wrapped lumps; William pulled the paper back and fragrant steam curled into his face.

"Meat pies," Adam said. "Best in the neighborhood."

William's stomach growled and he took a large bite. Adam pulled the stopper from the bottle with his teeth and had a drink, then offered the bottle to him – fresh cider. They ate slowly, warming themselves on the steps and watching the people stroll through the market. William thought of the markets in Glasgow, long Saturdays with his sister and the sound of his nieces' laughter. Margaret would tell him he was too thin, buy him a cake of which he would take one bite before splitting it between the lasses to see their eyes go big and greedy. He wondered how often they went now. He wondered if the girls could see over the counters yet.

"My brother is in Boston," Adam said.

William stared at him. "What?"

Adam had finished his lunch; he crumpled the paper and sat back against the steps with his hands in his pockets, leaning on his elbows, his face turned up to the sun.

"My brother. Michael. The Brits think he died in the Rising, but he didn't. He got busted up pretty bad, but Andy knows people with ships and they got him out. First to the Continent, then to America."

"Adam _—_ "

"I was just a boy then, you know. Michael never would let me join up with the army. One of us had to look after our ma, he said. But then she died, and he just...let it all go, like. Gave himself over. I wanted to help, but he threatened to thrash me senseless if he caught me getting into trouble.

"So I took to sneaking along behind whenever Mikey went out, seeing what I could see, until he made Gerald promise to keep me close and with him. He was always like a father to both of us, you know. I was spitting nails over it, but Michael told me I would be all that was left of the family after he ended up swinging from a noose. He said if I made a life for myself, then the English wouldn't have taken everything. And then he was gone, and that was the last time I spoke to him."

William was speechless. He didn't know where this confession was coming from, but he did not want it. "Adam..." he began again, because no other words would come.

"I always thought if I could get up enough money, I could bring him back home one day. Not to Dublin, of course, but out in the country somewhere. Pay for a job and a new name. It's been done before. All I needed was the money." He had his head tilted back, eyes closed, the breeze ruffling his hair where it stuck out beneath his cap. "And then one day I talked to Danny Fisher. He told me Gerald had been running supplies out of the pub – not the important bits, but always to the side, like, and always anonymous. Unmarked, unrecorded boxes, easy enough to slip through the cracks unnoticed."

A chilly warning blossomed in William's chest.

"I told Gerald I wanted to help. I said I was a man now and could choose my own way, so I could. I said I'd be under his watch, just doing my part. And I did. I ran for the better part of a year before I'd seen enough to know what wouldn't be missed and where I could sell it. Never a whole box – a rifle here, a case of shells there. In six months I had almost half of what I needed."

Adam turned his head to meet William's eyes. "I just thought it fair, you see – that you should know my reasons as I know yours. I wish I had the noble cause that Gerald and the others do. I don't even have the honor of true vengeance as you do. Those lads that think I'm the Irish Jesse James, the lasses looking at me like I'm de Valera in a dockworker's jacket – they're all fooled. The truth of it is, I steal from my own countrymen because I want my brother back. That's all."

"That's the noblest cause I can think of," William said.

Something flitted across Adam's face and was gone before William could recognize it; but he thought it almost looked like relief.

"Just be careful, Adam. Your brother wouldn't want you getting yourself killed for him. Not by either side."

"This is all I know, Glasgow. All a man can do is what he thinks right. If things get better, then my brother can come home. If they don't, then I'll do what I must to take care of him." He dropped his head until his cap shaded his eyes. "I just... I wanted you to know. I didn't want to lie to you anymore."

Ruan whined and pushed at William's leg, thumping his tail for attention. Absently William leaned forward and patted the dog's red fur. The air had grown too warm; he turned his face away from the sun as sweat began to prickle on the back of his neck. He scratched Ruan's belly with one hand and put the other in his pocket so Adam could not see it shaking.

15.

March 29, 1922

William looked up from his sweeping as the front door clanged open and the pub erupted into cheers. Andy barely had time to remove his cap and coat before a score of hands were clapping him on the back and drawing him forward toward the bar, and the crowd had united in a chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" before the third lass left red lip-prints on his blushing cheeks.

"Tis his birthday," Gerald said.

William raised an eyebrow. "Mine is fourteenth May," he said, "In case you wanted to plan ahead." That got him a few laughs, and he set his broom aside and made his way down to the knot of people gathered around Andy's place at the bar.

"It's your birthday, then, is it?" He pulled a glass from the rack and filled it to the mark with Andy's favorite brew, dropping a coin from his pocket into the jar. "Have one on Caledonia," he said, and Andy's face blustered into a smile.

David and Adam had moved down to Andy's stool and slung their arms around his shoulders, one on either side. Andy's beer sloshed onto the bar from their jostling; he wiped his mouth and lifted his glass in proclamation.

"It's my birthday, boys," he exclaimed. "Here's to the best group of mates money can buy." That got him a ruffled head and Adam's elbow in his ribs, and glasses and bottles went up around the room. William poured himself a shot of whisky and dropped another coin in the jar just before the call of slainte!, and tossed it back to the sound of blessings in both English and Irish.

In the back corner, the fiddler was rosining his bow. "What will you have, Byrne?" he called. "Not all of us can afford to fill your thirst."

The hour had already grown late, and a Saturday at that, and the mention of song prompted a swift scraping of chairs and tables being pushed aside. Andy bent his head back until his pint was empty and brought the glass down onto the bar top with a heavy thud.

"I care not what the tune is, as I can't much tell one song from another anyway _—_ " It was true enough; William had never met anyone as truly tone-deaf as Andy Byrne _—_ "I have only a request for the singer." He threw a hand backwards to thwap into Adam's shoulder with something resembling a pat. "Give us a song, Elliot, 's been too long."

The suggestion was met with the usual approval, and Adam responded with the usual objection. William glanced around the room – Sarah Reilly was not in attendance tonight, and he felt an inexplicable flash of satisfaction. He quickly turned his attention to wiping down the bar top.

Adam made his way to a table by the wall, and with the grand display of the truly intoxicated he leapt up onto it ("Oi, mind the furniture!" shouted Gerald) and spread his hands wide until the noise subsided.

"Very well," he said. "Very well. I will do as you ask, my dear friend Andrew – but only if my own demand is met. Tis the right of the artist, is it not? My stipulation is this: I will only sing if I am given a suitable duet partner."

He looked across the room, fifty heads turned, and William took a step back as he realized that every one of them was looking at him.

Mary spoke from behind him. "Looks like your cue, love."

"What?" William spluttered, flummoxed. "I _—_ Me? No, I don't _—_ "

"Go on then, Glasgow!" someone yelled, and more voices chimed in. A moment later the entire room was chanting his nickname.

William could feel his face burning; the flush intensified when he met Adam's eyes over the sea of heads. He stood frozen in place, and then he felt Mary's hand on the small of his back as she spoke into his ear.

"Go on, William. He's waiting for you."

His fingers scrabbled to untie his apron as he came around the bar. Someone plucked it from his hand the moment it slipped off, and the crowd helped him along with a few encouraging slaps on the back. Adam passed his empty glass to a spectator and crossed his arms over his chest in triumph as William approached the table. They looked at each other, and the whisky in William's blood mixed with a rush of something else as a smile spread across his face.

"Help an old man up," he said, and stuck out his hand.

Adam leaned over and hauled William up onto the table, barely managing not to bowl them both over in the process. He turned to the crowd and called, "Our William is a shy soul, lads – who will offer him some courage?" Someone passed up two brown glass bottles; Adam pressed one into William's hand and clanked it against his own.

William sniffed the bottle's contents – fresh red wine. He realized then that Adam was watching him, and so was everyone else. He raised his drink to Andy in birthday salute, tipped his head back, and upended the bottle into his mouth. He could barely hear the room's reaction over the sound of his gulps, his heart pounding as he drank and drank and drank until the bottle was dry. He let go with a gasp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Not bad, Glasgow," Adam said. And then, louder, "Right! Now what shall we sing for you, Andy?"

"Whatever y'choose. Let Glasgow decide!"

William looked down at the fiddler. "I know none of your songs, I fear."

The lad smiled and tucked his fiddle beneath his chin. "I know one of yours," he said, and winked as he struck his bow. The first few notes sprang out into the pub, and no one was more astounded than himself when William threw back his head and laughed until the sound bounced off the ceiling. Through his giggles Adam managed to draw in a breath and start the first verse.

Oh come all ye folks who weary are

Of life, its cares and trouble,

Who anything will do and dare

So you may burst the bubble;

I have a plan within my head

That's new and nothing risky,

Whenever you want to nick the thread,

Just try our Glesca whisky.

William could not recall how much he'd had to drink that night, but he knew it wasn't nearly enough to cause the giddy feeling swelling in his chest. The energy coming off Adam was more potent than tumbler or bottle, and William soaked it up and poured it back out in the shape of the second verse.

The poison stuff the doctors sell

You scarcely can get any,

But Glesca whisky bears the bell

It's flavoured with so many;

And poison selling's so fenced around

To buy it is but risky;

But ye may cut throats, or hang, or drown,

When primed wi' Glesca whisky.

Someone called William's name, and he turned to see David holding up another bottle – without missing a beat he tossed his empty one over and caught the replacement, and he was plucking out the stopper with his teeth when Adam's arm fell across his shoulders and drew him close for the finish.

So try our Glesca whisky

Aye try our Glesca whisky!

It gives us pleasure wi' our death

So hey for Glesca whisky!

William listened to the cheering as he drank a long pull from the bottle until his lungs threatened to burst from lack of air; when he opened his eyes, Adam was watching him, face red and chest heaving, gray eyes lit with drink and delight. William knew he looked the same when he handed Adam the bottle and watched him bend back his head to swallow every drop.

"Hold up your end, Elliot, before you tip us over."

"I am holding my end, Young, it's you who's gone lopsided."

"If you drop this crate Mary will skin you alive. She makes her spending money on these bottles, you know."

"Well she should have thought of that before she went to bed and left a drunkard like you to tend them for her."

William stopped short, causing Adam to stumble; the empty bottles wobbled in their crate.

"Are you implying that I am intoxicated?"

Adam's cap had fallen down over one eye; it slipped a little more when he grinned.

"I'm implying nothing, Mr. Young, sir." They hefted the box again and moved forward a few steps. "I am stating quite plainly that you are knackered off your Scottish arse."

It was a fair description of them both, truth be told. They stumbled down the narrow basement corridor with the crate of empty bottles between them, bumping first into one wall, then the other, then into each other, puffing and swearing in pungent little grunts.

"Wasn't me who was makin' a fool of m'self with every lass in the pub, shooglin' about with my braces hangin' off."

"No, 'twas you who was leaping on the table like one of the Wee Folk, and your face as red as the port." Adam chuckled at William's indignant splutter. "You do have Wee Folk in Scotland, don't you, Glasgow? You must have, as you do such a fine impression of one."

William opened his mouth to reply and tripped over his left foot. The box came down between them and hit the floor with a crash and the sound of breaking glass. They froze where they stood, eyes round like two lads caught in the candy jar – but no sound came from upstairs, no call of what the devil is that racket? from Gerald or Mary, and suddenly they were both sagging against the wall and shaking with stifled laughter. Adam set his cap aright and put a finger to his lips, whispering in that ridiculous way that only the inebriated think is actually quiet.

"Shhh, you'll wake the house with your drunken screeching."

"Would be your fault entirely – you caused me to lose my balance."

"Me?" They were struggling to lift the crate, winded and off-kilter. Adam grinned. "I would never think of disrupting your balance, my friend."

"You've been doing so since the day I met you," William said.

Adam stopped moving. William's eyes widened, but he could not unsay what he had said. Instead he turned back to the crate and pushed, trying to move them further down the hall. Adam did not budge and William stumbled, tilting sideways, his side of the crate slipping down until he braced against the wall to stop it from crashing. Adam lurched forward at the change in angle and William could smell the wine on his breath, the dried sweat on his neck and moist warmth creeping up from the collar of his shirt. Vertigo washed over him, lights spinning across his vision – the corridor closed around them; he felt trapped, suffocated, the lights shrinking and blotted out by gray eyes glittering far too close to his face.

"Adam—"

"Don't," Adam said, and his mouth was on William's before the crate could hit the floor.

William's eyes closed and his mouth opened. He was very, very drunk; the world tilted and swayed and ran together until he couldn't feel which way was up. Adam's tongue was bitter with alcohol and cigarettes, as hot as he knew it would be, as he'd imagined when he lay on his back at night and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom with one hand on his chest and the other buried beneath the sheets. His stomach dropped at the memory and his eyes snapped open – he put his hands on Adam's shoulders to draw away while he still could, but Adam's eyes had closed and he sighed against William's mouth, and William cracked like the glass crunching beneath their feet and pushed them both across the corridor until Adam's back hit the wall with a heavy smack.

They inhaled each other, desperate and uncoordinated in their frantic greed. William felt his shirttail ripped from his trousers by fumbling fingers; he pulled with both hands and heard Adam's shirt buttons hit the floor in a scatter of tiny sounds. Adam's braces slipped from his shoulders at the same moment William's knee pushed his thighs apart. His teeth closed on William's earlobe, his breath harsh and scraping behind the sound of roaring blood. William could no longer tell which limbs were his and which were Adam's, only sharp elbows and awkward angles and clumsy, mashing kisses. It was not enough – they needed more, faster, harder, now, and then Adam's fingers slid inside William's trousers and they fell in a tangle of limbs on the basement floor.

William landed on top; he yanked Adam's shirt apart and groped for his trousers. The stubborn wool refused to cooperate until there was a sudden ripping sound and Adam sprang into his hands, impossibly hard and twitching with his racing pulse. Adam grunted and clutched at William's back, grabbed a handful of his arse to pull him closer while William got his own trousers open and thrust forward to meet him, tight and sliding and perfect.

They tore at each other with drunken urgency, unable to get close enough no matter how hard they pushed or how fiercely they clung. It was skin and salt and heat, the thick smell of sex rising until William couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond his need to move faster and harder until Adam cried out and went taught beneath him, their bellies wet with sudden, burning moisture. He grew pliant in William's arms, and the sound he made sent William over the edge, yelling between his teeth as his body shuddered with the force of it. He gave a final thrust, sticky skin squelching obscenely, and then his arms gave out and he collapsed in a heap on Adam's chest.

He waited until he could breathe, until the mad spinning in his brain began to slow, and then he lifted his head. Adam's lower lip was already darkening with a purple bruise, his sweaty hair sticking out at ridiculous angles when he looked up at William as they lay in tatters on the chilly basement floor – and then his eyes flashed and his mouth turned up into a smug, victorious grin.

William felt sick. Abruptly he drew back and separated their bodies with a sticky, peeling sound. Adam's grin disappeared, but William was already scrambling to his feet; his shins hit the crate and he tripped, skidding through broken glass before sitting down hard on the top. The bottles rattled inside, tinkling glass and creaking wood, and William heard the sigh of a high-pitched voice.
Adam...

Adam rose onto his elbows, confused, but before he could open his mouth William stumbled up the stairs and into the darkness, slamming the door shut behind him.

16.

March 30, 1922

William sat at the end of the kitchen table, ankles hooked around the legs of his stool. In front of him was an enormous wooden bowl into which he was steadily peeling potatoes. He had already done enough to feed a small army, but he found that at the right pace, the repetitive chopping rhythm almost managed to distract him from the constant, all-encompassing pounding in his head. At his elbow sat a cup of chamomile tea long since gone cold and cloudy; he had a go at actually drinking it, but after four sips he decided it was wiser not to tempt fate. He was just beginning to feel like he might remain upright when the front door clanged open and he put a hand to his head to keep it from rolling into the pile of potato peels.

Mary and Gerald burst into the kitchen in a flurry of raindrops and church bells, their arms full of boxes and brown grocery bags. Ruan followed behind them, barking at their heels. Gerald set his packages on the counter while Mary took off her coat and kerchief. She caught sight of William and beamed.

"William! Hello! We brought you some lunch!"

William pressed his lips together into what he hoped resembled a smile. "Thank you."

Gerald shooed Ruan away and began rummaging through the bags. "Mary, do you have the rolls?" he cried, and William winced and dropped his potato.

"No, Da," Mary said, "I've only got the tripe and garlic."

William swallowed thickly, blanching; he set his focus on his next unsuspecting victim. "I've got them," called a voice, and his knife stuttered and hit the chopping block.

Adam strode into the kitchen, fresh-faced and chipper, raindrops on his collar and three wrapped parcels in his arms. The kitchen door banged shut behind him while Ruan leapt at his knees. Adam set the bags down next to the chopping block; William twisted to avoid his elbow and kept his eyes on his work.

"Daniel sent you some of that braided bread, William," said Mary. "He said it was your favorite."

Adam glanced at the tottering mountain of potato peels and the cup of cold tea. "He's got lunch already, I'd say." He picked up a small sack – white paper printed with Fisher's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods in black script – and held it in front of William's face. "Hungry, then, Glasgow?"

Mary turned from the pantry and frowned. "William, love, are you alright? You look a bit pale."

William snatched the bag from Adam's fingers and gave her a thin smile. "I'm fine."

But it was too late – she had already rolled up the sleeve of her Sunday dress and was pressing her wrist to William's forehead, peering into his eyes. "You're not ill, are you? Is it your head?"

Adam pulled a roll apart with his long fingers; he shoved half of it in his mouth and spoke around puffed cheeks.

"You do look a bit ill-used, to be sure. Rough night, was it?"

If William had been running a temperature, it would have cooled instantly under the glare he leveled at Adam. Adam grinned merrily, chewing with his mouth open, and William's hand tightened on the paring knife.

"Leave him be, the both of you," said Gerald. "He likely just went a bit heavy last night, as half the pub did. Don't be fussing over him, Mary."

Adam tilted his head. "Aye, I do seem to remember you going a bit heavy there at the end. Got into the wine, didn't you?"

The half-memory lingering in William's head, blurred from sleep and hangover, flared into fresh and violent life at Adam's words with the smell of sweat and the sound of glass crunching beneath his feet. His stomach churned and he choked back a lump of bile; he placed his palms on the table and took a breath until it passed. He felt Mary's hands on his shoulders and stood abruptly, sending the wooden bowl clattering into the teacup.

"I don't feel well. I think I ought to lie down."

Gerald turned from the sink. Mary's face was pinched with worry. Adam's smile vanished, his eyebrows first rising then drawing down and in. Finally Gerald spoke.

"Aye, lad, you go on. I'll send up some tea in a bit. You just get some rest and you'll be fine. And don't you trouble yourself over last night – we've all taken a bit more than we should have, in our time."

William looked at the faded bruise on Adam's lower lip. His head gave a sick throb.

"Aye," he said. "More than I should have."

He set his stool neatly in place, took the back stairs to his room, and vomited up four sips of chamomile tea before he went back to bed.

17.

April 4, 1922

William took the stairs two at a time, reading over the list in his hands. He had the whole day to himself, and he didn't mean to spend it cooped up in his room – not when there was a market full of people to observe, conversations to hear, and a wallet full of last week's pay to divest himself of. It was already Thursday, and he was behind on the week's newspapers. He could squander no more time on distractions. He reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped over Ruan without looking; the setter, stretched full-length in a bar of sunlight, looked up briefly and then went back to sleep. William tossed the end of his scarf over his shoulder and began whistling the first verse of "Jenny with the Auburn Hair".

Mary had been hard at the spring cleaning all week. She stood near the mantle at the top of a rickety ladder, her hair bound up in a kerchief and the cuffs of her boy's trousers rolled above her ankles, making sure no dusty nook or cranny escaped the reach of her cloth. She looked down when William entered and smiled.

"Are you off to the market?"

"Aye, I've a few errands to run. Gerald gave me the day off so I thought I'd best use it."

"Right, well, have fun then." As he reached for the doorknob she called after him, "Oi, William, hang on a bit."

He turned and she was hopping down from the ladder, dusting off her hands. "Could you be a love and drop off a package for me while you're out?" Before he could answer she disappeared into the kitchen, then emerged with a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"I did some mending for Adam, but I've not seen him in a few days. His flat's not far from the market – would you mind at all taking it to him?"

William rubbed the back of his neck. "I wouldn't, Mary, but I do have a lot to do, and—"

"Can I ask you a question, William?"

"Of course."

"Have you and Adam quarreled? I've not seen the two of you talk in nearly a week. It's just not like either of you, and – well, it's none of my business, I reckon. You can tell me to bugger off if you like."

William almost smiled. "No, we've not quarreled. It's nothing, I'm sure. Maybe he's been busy lately. I don't know." He shrugged. "I should really get going, I don't want to—"

"I'm glad to hear it," Mary said. "It just seemed queer to me, is all. I thought maybe you'd taken a lass he had his eye on or something."

William chuckled. "No, it's not that, I assure you."

"Good. A shame it'd be to let one indiscretion come between you." She reached over with her free hand and picked a bit of lint off his shoulder. "A true friend doesn't come along every day, you know. You're good together, you and Adam."

"I know," William said.

She straightened the knot of his scarf, then dusted off his collar and smiled. "Right. I'll just take these to him myself, then, shall I? Or save them for the next time he comes round the pub. I'm sure you need to get on with your busy day."

William sighed and slid his shopping list into his back pocket. The butcher paper crinkled in his arms when he took the package from her.

"Twelve St. Stephen Street," Mary said. "Flat 4E." Her smile unchanged, she turned to grab her cloth and climb back up the ancient ladder.

"And tell him to be more careful next time. How he lost four buttons off a single shirt is beyond me. Likely I don't want to know."

William looked down at the parcel in his hands, smelling faintly of starch and mothballs. Mary was scrubbing once more at the faded brick, her bare feet on tiptoe and her hair falling from its kerchief, humming the chorus of "Jenny with the Auburn Hair" as she worked in the sunlight.

"Likely you don't," William said.

Twelve St. Stephen Street was a tenement house. It stood in a row of identical buildings, all propped against each other on the crowded street. William checked the sign on the post again, though he knew he had made no wrong turns. The neighborhood seemed decent enough, and children played jacks on the steps in front of him, but most of the windows were covered with blankets and some with bars. William looked up at the paint peeling over the entryway. He knew exactly what the rent on a room like this would be. He thought of Adam's taste for fancy clothes – clothes that Mary was mending two and three times over. He really was sending all his money to America. William frowned and walked up the steps, stepping around the game of jacks to make his way up three flights of stairs.

Flat 4E was at the end of a long narrow hall; in front of the door lay a braided rug fraying at the edges and two empty milk bottles. William stared at the brass plate on the door.

God's sake, Young. You've never hesitated before a doorway in all your life. You can head the raid on Robbie Fraser but you can't face a boy of two-and-twenty? Get on with it, you wee girl.

He raised his fist to knock but the door opened before he could. Adam blinked at him, holding the door with one hand and pulling his braces up with the other; he had no shirt on over his vest, barefooted and bareheaded, wet hair still dripping onto his freckled shoulders.

"Glasgow."

"Adam."

A dog began barking outside in the street; a woman's voice yelled something and the barking ceased. To replace it, a baby began to wail somewhere downstairs.

"Mary asked me to bring you this," William said, holding out the package. "Your mending."

"Oh, aye." Adam took the bundle and looked down at it with a little grin. "Reckon she'd give her right eye to know how I damaged it."

"Well, she did say you ought to be more careful with your shirts."

Adam looked up from beneath his brow. "Wasn't me who was uncareful, as I recall."

"Aye, well." William scratched his nose. "Right, I'll not keep you then. I've got my errands to run and such, I just stopped off to pass that along for Mary."

Adam nodded. "Right." And then, "Will you be working this evening?"

"Aye. It's my night off, but I haven't much else to do these days."

"Sure I know that feeling."

"Haven't seen you down pub in a bit."

"No. Been busy and all."

"Aye. Well, I'll be off then."

"See ya."

"Aye, see ya."

William's footsteps fell too heavily on the floorboards as he listened for the sound of the closing door. Halfway to the steps he heard Adam's voice instead.

"I'm sorry, William."

He had stepped out into the hall, holding the package to his chest. His hair curled in damp corkscrews on his neck.

"I'd no right to embarrass you like that. I don't know why I carried on so. If you'd been a lass I'd have expected a smack in the face."

The brown paper in his arms had splotched with drops of water; one bare toe dug between the braids of the rug. William leaned against the banister and sighed.

"No, Adam, I'm sorry. I was rude to you. I don't know what's got into me to—" He shook his head. "I shouldn't have forgotten myself like that." He shrugged off the look on Adam's face and gave him a smile. "No bother, right? It's already forgotten. No harm done. And hey, now you can say you've got a Scottish notch on your belt, yeah?."

"It wasn't like that."

William's smile stiffened. He heard the edge peel back from his voice. "What was it, then?"

Adam's eyes dropped; he did not reply, and William snorted. "I've got to go, alright? I'll see you around." He was four steps down the stairs before Adam called out after him.

"Fuck's sake, William, will you stop running from me?"

William's hand tightened on the banister until his knuckles turned white. But Adam's voice was neither taunting nor callous – it was clear and plain, as plain as the expression on his face when William turned to look at him. Plain, and pleading.

"Come inside?"

"I can't do this," William said. "I can't."

Adam's eyes were matte gray in the gloomy hall. "Yes you can."

William became aware that this was the moment of his choice – that regardless of what happened in the next few breaths, the results of this moment would never and could never be undone. He knew this with perfect clarity, just as he knew that the choice had been made long ago, and with as much certainty as the sound of his feet crossing the hall and the creak of the door closing behind them.

The room was about the same size as William's, but considerably less furnished. A frameless bed sprawled in the corner, sheets unkempt but clean; a large silver crucifix hung above the basin and pitcher on the dresser. The kitchen was smudged with old stove smoke but looked otherwise mostly unused; two empty beer bottles and a sandwich crust littered the counter by the icebox. On the table lay Adam's shotgun and a pistol – above them, tacked to the faded wallpaper, was an enormous flag of Ireland. William took a step back.

"Fuck, Adam, I can't be here—"

The rest of his protest was cut off by Adam's kiss.

William had always been proud of his control. For nine years of other people's lives he had never wavered, never once losing his precious, crucial detachment. There had been dodgy times, maddening times, certainly frightening times, but he had never entirely succumbed to any moment. Never had he let anything he was inside of overwhelm him – not like Adam overwhelmed him, surrounding every part of him and soaking deeper into him than any sweat or tears or blood had ever done. Nine years of danger, only to be beaten now – bested by Adam's hands on his face, the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth. Adam poured over him like a wave over rocks, and like a drowning man William clung to his last breath of air and groped for a tether. He braced his hands on Adam's shoulders to push himself away.

Instead, Adam tugged at his coat and scarf. "Let me, William. Just let me..."

Everything was complicated; Adam was simple. Nine years of duplicity and details, so much to remember and think about – Adam was an instinct, the simplest of realities, effortless and undeniable. Nine years dissipated to background noise, a jarring chord stuck in his head that finally stopped repeating at the moment of his capitulation.

Cool air hit his skin as Adam's fingers undid the last button on his shirt and spread the fabric apart. William shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall behind him. He knew what Adam's widening eyes could see: the full, jagged welt of the scar on his neck, now flushed to crimson; the splash of angry tissue along his right shoulder, reaching nearly to his bicep; the faded brown slash against his ribcage, half-hidden by his left elbow. Adam took in each mark, one at a time. He traced one finger down the nerveless skin on William's shoulder; his palm curved around the scar until William could feel the heat seeping through the ruined skin, and then Adam's arms slid around his neck and William could feel all of him everywhere.

William kissed him greedily, refusing to let go as they shed the rest of their clothes. Adam wriggled out of his braces and pulled back just long enough to peel his vest over his head and undo his trousers; a rush of worn fabric and he stood naked in the hazy light from the window. He was achingly beautiful, clean lines and soft shadows – the unlined skin of a boy over the dense muscles of a man. He leaned into William and kissed his mouth, his jaw, his throat; on the scar he paused, his breath clinging to the numb skin. And then his lips took its place – a single, soft kiss. William let out a breath he didn't remember holding.

"I've been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you," Adam said.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me."

"I never have. This scar made you who you are. I'm grateful to it." He had shaved that morning; his cheek was smooth against William's jaw. "It's as beautiful as the rest of you."

The narrow bed creaked beneath their weight. William moved on top by instinct, but Adam dodged him and he was left to roll to his back. Adam was on him in an instant, grinning down with his hair falling in his eyes and a finger on William's lips.

"Let me, Glasgow."

William tensed as Adam moved down his chest and settled between his spread knees. He rose to his elbows, but Adam pushed his thighs apart, thumbs drawing slow circles and mouth hot on William's belly as he whispered.

"Open for me."

William's knees spread wider before he could stop them. Adam's nose nudged through ginger hair; his tongue flicked across the crease of one thigh and William gasped.

"Christ — just—"

He felt himself coming undone beneath the strokes of Adam's thumbs on his bollocks, Adam's tongue on his foreskin, Adam's mouth around him. The knot between his shoulder blades unraveled and his elbows would no longer hold him; his right knee slipped free of Adam's grasp and he wound the leg over Adam's shoulder, his heel rubbing against Adam's spine with every roll of his hips. His blood had turned to fire and his muscles to water; he canceled himself out and dissolved to a shivering, boneless ghost beneath the relentless rhythm. Adam's thumbs stroked endless circles, pressing harder with each stroke until William spit out a choked oath, hips jerking while Adam held him down and refused to let go until every shudder was spent and William's leg fell sprawling across the mattress.

As the white pulses ebbed from his vision he dimly saw Adam crawling up his belly, grinning as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand before he fit himself, lithe and sinuous, against William's trembling body. Wet lips skimmed up his jaw line, warm breath against his ear just before a soft, satisfied voice.

"There now."

"I have to tell you something," William said. He fought to calm his racing heart, to slow his gasping breaths. "Adam, I— there is something you must know. I need to tell you..."

"Sh." Adam moved against him, pressing into his hip. "Later."

William clung to his last thread of lucidity, the only thing keeping him from flying apart and pinning Adam to his back until the moans drowned out the screaming alarms in his head. Adam's hand slid across his chest and his hips moved again, hard and insistent against William's belly. William shuddered.

"Adam, please, listen, I can't...stop it, I can't think—"

"That's your problem, Glasgow," Adam said. "You think too much." His tongue drew a fiery line up the scar on William's neck.

William moved before either of them realized it, twisting lightning-fast until Adam was on his back, both wrists straining in William's grip, the thin bed creaking under the violent movement. He could taste himself in Adam's mouth, smell Adam on his own skin, the lines between them blurred forever. Adam moaned and opened beneath him, all pretenses gone, yielding at last.

William stopped thinking.

18.

April 13, 1922

It rained all afternoon. What little light filtered through the window was cold and gray, murky with the changing patterns of water running down the glass. William listened to the dripping eaves, as rhythmic and constant as Adam's slow breathing beside him. No fire burned in the stove, and the bedside lamp did little to ease the chill outside the tangle of blankets; William lay with one arm beneath his head and stared at the ceiling, watching the morphing shapes of light move across the whitewash, until his eyelids finally closed.

"Do you have any Gaelic?"

William started awake but managed not to flinch. Adam had not moved; he lay sprawled on his belly in the rumpled sheets, eyes closed and breathing even. His question was so odd that William answered it.

"No, I don't."

Adam's voice was muffled by the pillow beneath his cheek. "They don't teach Irish in school – not in Dublin, anyway. They go on about doing it but there's none of us can speak it. I wondered what it was like in Scotland."

"No one's spoken Gaelic in Glasgow for two hundred years. That's only up north now, I think."

Adam's eyes opened; he pushed himself up onto one elbow and rubbed his tousled hair. His brows scrunched together in sleepy curiosity, his shoulders striped with crinkled sheet-marks.

"Have you nothing of your culture, then?"

William's head turned. "Of course we do," he snapped, and it was only after the words came out that he heard how sharp they were. Adam merely watched him, as he always did.

Of course he had his own culture. What a stupid thing to ask. William thought of street fairs and football matches, fiddle music and toffee apples and chasing his sister through the park. Scrabbling to look over the top of his uncle's bar, begging to be picked up so he could wrap one chubby hand around the tap and pretend to help. He thought of shillings in his pocket and flags on the awnings and the hoarse sound of his father shouting in the street.

He didn't need Gaelic to be Scottish – he had his own language sure enough. He almost smiled, thinking of the Cambridge lasses leaning over his shoulder, handing him slips of poetry to read aloud while they blushed; and later, of damp whispers along quivering throats that shuddered beneath his words. And then he thought of rapped knuckles and shorn consonants, shrill correction and endless rote until they all got it proper, and the clipped disdain of Lord Christopher's sneer. And yet you managed to retain that accent, I see.

"We have our way," he said.

Adam poked a finger into the hair on William's chest and began tracing idle patterns. "My brother taught me some – Irish, I mean. He learned it at university. He used to show me words sometimes." He twirled an auburn curl around his fingertip. "Didn't anyone show you any Gaelic when you were small?"

William stared at the ceiling and listened to the endless rain. Between the drops he heard the sound of his mother singing 'Cagaran Gaolach' in her sweet, lilting voice.

"No," he said.

"Well fancy that. I'm more educated than the college boy, so I am." Adam gave the hair between his fingers a tweak and laughed when William flinched. "Perhaps if you're lucky I might share my wondrous knowledge with you someday."

He tugged again, harder, and William jerked and swore, grabbing his wrist in one hand as they laughed.

"Oh, aye? You think you've something to teach me, then?"

Adam rolled over all at once, shifting his weight to stretch full-length on top of William's body. He braced his arms on either side of William's head and smiled down at him.

"Perhaps. "Depends on how quick a student you are."

William settled easily into the feeling of Adam's body against his own. Their legs splayed together, tiny drafts of cool air sneaking beneath the blankets each time Adam moved. William still had an arm tucked behind his head – Adam reached up and drew a finger down the skin, tracing an invisible line across the swell of William's bicep, down through the valley of his armpit, up around the curve of one collarbone, stopping in the flat space between his nipples.

"Clúmhach," he said.

"What does that mean?"

Adam grinned. "Furry."

William shoved against his laughter and swatted his hand away. "Get off," he grunted, twisting away from long fingers poking at his ribs, until they settled together once more.

"Glas." Adam touched the skin below William's left eye. "Green."

William smirked, but he felt his face growing warm, which only caused Adam's laughter to return. "Aye, green as the Emerald Isle herself, so they are," he crowed dramatically, "and just as beguiling fair."

"Save that for your virgin conquests, boy," William said. "I'm none of your simpering lasses."

Adam's finger traced the fine lines at the corner of William's eye. He was still smiling, but the light in his eyes had changed; as he looked down at William the smile softened and then disappeared.

"That you are not."

And then William was kissing him, or maybe Adam was kissing him, it didn't matter which and he never could quite recall later anyway. Adam's mouth was lazy, slow with sleep and rain and the leftover warmth of the past three hours in this room; but he was already hard between their bellies, and in another moment so was William. He wrapped both arms around Adam's back, feeling it tense and relax as he moved, drawing them closer together. There was a feeling then, sudden and strange, and William's knees had drawn up before he could think to do so.

Adam drew back to look at him, face gone strange and soft-edged.

"Alainn."

William braced his feet on the mattress and tilted his hips, shuddering at pressure on still-slick skin that had not yet had time to recover.

"What...does that mean?"

His neck arched a little on the pillow and a breath escaped him as Adam slid forward in one slow, easy thrust.

"Beautiful," Adam said.

What fascinated William the most about sex with Adam was watching his face. He thought of various lovers from his past – serious and casual, female and male, aggressive and docile. Some stared at him as if willing a certain reaction out of him, scowling in concentration; some huffed and puffed, eyes clamped tight against the slightest distraction; some licked their lips and rolled their eyes and gave him the faces they thought he wanted to see. Adam did none of these things. In his body was no hint of rush or demand, no sign of the swagger he always wore like the cap now sitting on the dresser. His face hid nothing and it denied nothing – no guilt, no guile, no smug performance or faux bravado; it was an open canvas across which flitted every sensation. He made love with shameless joy, eyes closed, mouth open, trembling with each shallow breath. He was a thing of beauty in William's arms.

William wondered if this was what the rest of them saw.

He held on, content to feel the rhythm and the weight, not feeling the need for anything more. Adam's belly sliding against his cock was not important; the tight heat coiling in his bollocks was not important; nothing was important besides the body that shook and sweated in his arms. He shifted his hips, squeezed his thighs and Adam moaned and stuttered forward, and he could care about nothing except watching this happen, containing Adam as he came apart in quiet layers of warmth into the cold all around them. "Adam," he whispered, "Adam," and Adam gave one more thrust and froze there, his voice echoing off the thin walls, his hands clenched into fists in the sheets, waves of heat matching his violent tremors. William held on, held him, held this moment and held everything else away for as long as he possibly could.

Adam collapsed above him, his head dropping until his hair brushed William's neck, his shoulder-blades jutted back as his elbows trembled to hold up his weight. William ran both palms down his back, slow and soothing, wiping off salt and moisture. Adam raised his head; his face was flushed, gray eyes clouded and heavy. After a moment he caught his breath enough to speak.

"Táim i ngrá leat."

Softly, William said, "What does that mean?"

Adam closed his eyes and breathed. When he opened them again, their veneer returned as smoothly as a shade being drawn over a window. He grinned down at William and tossed a strand of hair back from his forehead. "Nothing." He rolled off and flopped onto his back, naked in the chill of the bedroom. "Just that I need a wee nap now."

William said nothing. Adam turned his head and gave him a drowsy smile; the pulse in his neck was slowing, his eyes languid and sleepy. William relaxed into the pillows and smiled.

"Lessons a bit much for you?"

Adam grinned back, but his voice was already fading. "Education takes time, Glasgow," he said. "Wake me in an hour and we'll compare notes."

William watched him slide into sleep. His hands lay on his belly, rising with each slow, even breath; his lips parted, his face gone slack and soft. The errant strand of hair had fallen back across his forehead. William drew the blanket up against the chill, and then he put one arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling, listening to the never-ending rain, until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

19.

April 19, 1922

"There's something in the air tonight, Glasgow. I've not seen the place this riled up in months."

William looked up from tugging at the stopper of the bottle wedged between his knees. He raised an eyebrow at Gerald and shouted above the din. "Oh aye?" The stopper came loose with a violent pop. "I hadn't noticed."

"Bollocks," Gerald laughed, watching William fill a long row of tumblers. "Don't think I haven't seen what's been going on around here. I'm not blind, man. I know what you've been up to."

William paused in mid-pour. "Eh?"

"Sure haven't I seen that red-haired lass making eyes at you all night? Don't gape at me like that, you know who I mean. The one with the devil's own hips on her."

William tilted the bottle again. "For shame, Gerald, she's young enough to be your daughter."

"Aye," said Gerald, "And that's why she's looking at you."

The lads around the bar chuckled, and William shook his head. "You're daft, the lot of you."

"You know something's amiss when even the Prod's getting looks from the ladies," said David. "Are you hiding something from us, then, Glasgow?"

William reached over and filled David's glass with one hand; the other he cocked into a fist until his bicep swelled beneath his rolled-up sleeve. "Only this, dear Davie," he said sweetly, "but I'd be happy to give you a better look at it."

The boys all laughed; a few tossed coins William's way for the next round of refills. "Speaking of lasses, Andy," David called out, "How're you faring with the lovely Miss Kate?"

There was an immediate torrent of inappropriate comments, Andy's cheeks flushed even redder than usual. He downed the rest of his drink and thumped his glass on the table. "Never you mind, Ryan, never you mind."

David, far from sober himself, leaned across the bar to William and whispered ridiculously loud. "Byrne's courting Kate O'Connell. Don't tell anyone."

"You have my oath."

A man at the other end of the bar chuckled. "Sure we've all got a lass or two on our cards now, don't we, now that Elliot's turned 'em all loose for us."

William looked up. "What?"

"True enough, " David nodded. "I hear he's gone and abandoned half his usual roster, so he has. All the young ones are talking about it."

"Katie says" – Andy was interrupted by elbows in his gut and hoots in his ear – "I say, Kate says, Kate told me that the lasses say Adam hasn't taken a girl home in nigh on a month. God's own truth."

"A month?" someone cried. "Has he caught a pox or something?"

"Maybe he gave them up for Lent," said David, and the bar shook with laughter.

William said nothing – he was looking across the crowd to where Adam sat at a back table, tossing dice with two other young men named Doyle and Collins. He was saying something that made all three of them laugh, and as he bent to make his throw he glanced up and caught William staring at him. His grin curled a little higher, and his eyes flashed for just an instant before he turned back to his game.

A voice in William's ear made him start, spilling a splash of whisky on the bar top.

"You're mates, then, aren't you Glasgow?" Gerald said. "Has he said anything to you about it?"

"Aye, you and he have been awfully chummy lately," said David. "Has he confessed anything to you, Glasgow? Has he got one on the sly that we don't know about?"

Everyone at the bar was looking his way. His eyes darted back to the corner before he could stop them; Adam bent low over the table, his dice in one fist, shaking them over the pile of coin and notes while the other lads talked above his head. When he saw William watching him, he brought his hand to his mouth and set his lips into a perfect 'o', blowing a breath across the dice in his palm.

William turned to face David. "I have no idea."

The boys made a few more lewd jokes, but then talk turned to the football match coming up that weekend and the subject was quickly forgotten. William wiped up the spilled whisky and took the dirty towel to the hamper; by the time he came back, the dice game had ended, Collins clapping Adam on the back with a smile while Doyle, looking somewhat less pleased, pulled out his wallet. William chuckled.

In another corner the fiddler rosined his bow while his companion dusted off the bodhrán. The dancing space cleared out more quickly than usual as tables were moved and partners selected. A black-haired girl appeared at Adam's elbow, whispering something in his ear that made her cheeks flush pink. Adam put a hand on her waist and whispered back, but his eyes were on William's. William cleared his throat and turned to find a clean towel.

Gerald was right – there was something in the air, a kind of wild current he growing steadily thicker. The fiddler drew his bow across the strings in a single trill, and a shiver seemed to run through the room; the tension rose with the temperature as sleeves were rolled up and hair was let down. William searched the crowd for Adam. The black-haired girl was nowhere to be seen; Adam leaned against a post with his arms across his chest, waiting for William's eyes to find him. His face had flushed, but only party from drink; he held William's gaze, sharp and fixed in the smoky light, and gave a slight nod toward the basement stairs.

William's eyes flitted to the darkened stairway. Another high note from the fiddle trilled through the room, followed by a quick practice rhythm from the bodhrán – tap-tap-tap. Gooseflesh prickled down William's arms, and he was untying his apron before he realized it. He stuck it on its peg and ignored whatever comment Andy made as he walked around the bar and toward the stairs, his eyes never wavering from Adam's face.

Halfway across the room a hand settled on his arm. He turned to see red hair falling from its ribbon, all the way down to the devil's own hips beneath a thin cotton dress.

"Will you dance, Glasgow?"

William saw Adam's eyebrows rise – and then it was William's turn to grin. The bodhrán began to pound, heavy and insistent, and couples paired up across the floor. William looked back at the girl and gave her his most courteous bow.

"Of course."

The music began all at once, fast and furious from the opening note. William's hand fit neatly around the girl's waist, as neatly as her own hand fit around the back of his neck. Her thumb brushed his scar and she bit her lip. He smiled at her and, without further warning, swung her into a perfect reel. From the corner of his eye he saw Adam's jaw drop as he came up off the post. He set his pint down on the table and, looking around briefly, seized Sarah Reilly as she passed, spinning the startled girl into his arms. William grinned wider and tightened his grip.

The rhythm grew faster with each verse, winding tighter and tighter in the smoky, humid air. Adam twirled Sarah flawlessly in his arms, her hair flying out behind them; William spun his own partner just as perfectly, twisting through the maze of bodies to come full turn around the room.

They circled each other, trading glances over the arms thrown around their necks, turning through the crowd from opposite sides of the floor. The music pounded in William's head, in his blood, in his hands on a slim waist and his head turning to catch every furtive look. He could hear someone laughing, and it took a moment to realize it was himself.

As abruptly as it had begun, the song crashed to an end. The dancers fanned themselves and paused to catch a kiss and catch their breath. William felt a tug on his shirt and turned; his eyes went wide as the girl rose to her tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth. Her freckled cheeks were pink as she winked at him.

"Not bad, Glasgow," she said, and gave him a pat on the bottom before she turned and walked away.

The dance floor cleared as quickly as it had filled up. William looked around through the scattering crowd – Adam was gone. He peered across the pub until he saw Sarah fanning herself at a table and giggling with her girlfriends; his eyes searched every face at the tables, in line for the loo, squeezed between the stools in front of the bar, where Gerald and Mary moved double-time to serve their thirsty customers. Behind them, the kitchen door swung subtly on its hinges. William crossed the room in ten strides and burst through the door before it could swing back a second time. He was barely on the other side before a pair of hands grabbed him by the collar and pulled.

Adam's arse collided ungracefully with the kitchen table; William shoved aside a stack of bowls to pin him where he stood. He could smell the alcohol and the sweat, feel the music still pounding in their veins – Adam's hands were on him, pulling him closer to grind their bodies together, and William bent him backward and kissed him until the pans began to rattle in the racks above them.

Long fingers sliding into his trousers snapped him back to reality. He drew back abruptly, eyes flying to the kitchen door and the crowd just outside it. He grabbed Adam's hands and moved them away.

"Don't," he gasped. "Someone might see."

"So what if they did?" Adam reached for William's hips and pulled. "Let them see."

William closed his eyes, pushing into the pressure of Adam's knee between his thighs; but then looked at the door again, and this time he pulled completely away.

"You don't mean that. You really want those lads to see you doing this with a bloke? How do you think they'd take to something like that? How do you think Gerald would take to it?"

Adam came up from the table and slipped his arms around William's waist. His breath smelled of sweet tobacco and sharp whisky., and William's head reeled.

"Gerald would want to see me happy. " He pushed up, hard and unmistakable, against William's belly. "Make me happy, Glasgow."

William shuddered and gripped the edge of the table. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I can't say no to you."

Adam grinned against his throat. "Aye, I know. Tis a terrible curse."

William chuckled; the sound vibrated in his throat, against his pulse and Adam's lips hovering there. He dipped his head back, swearing at the ceiling, as Adam moved down the line of his scar, first with his lips, then with his tongue. William gripped the table to keep himself from falling, his free hand groping for anything he could grab to pull them closer together.

"William, love, could you—"

William's eyes sprang open and his head whipped to the kitchen door. Mary stood there, motionless, her blue eyes round and enormous. One hand went to her throat.

"Oh," she said.

William scrambled backwards, tugging his clothes into place. He ran a hand through his hair and wiped his mouth, painfully aware of the prominent erection straining at his trousers.

"Um," he said.

Beside him, Adam lounged against the table and cocked his head, smiling. "Hello, Mary my love."

"I—" Mary's voice was a rusty squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I was just...wondering..."

William tried to gather his wits enough to come up with a coherent sentence. He took a step forward and his foot clattered into the pile of bowls on the floor; he stammered a few syllables, trying to blink himself into sobriety while Adam grinned beside him. Finally he gave up and merely stared at her, at a total loss. Mary's wide eyes moved from one face to the other and back – and then her face lit up with a smile.

Adam stood up straight and adjusted his cap. "Break's over, Glasgow," he said. "Best get back to work before you get sacked." He stuck his hands in his pockets and headed for the door.

"No," Mary blurted. The shock had gone from her features; her eyes twinkled with mischief as her head tilted in concern. "That is to say, no, William, you do look a tad shaky now I look at you. You go ahead and have a rest in here for a bit. No need to rush back outside just now." She clasped her hands behind her back and turned to Adam. "Look after him, won't you? He looks a bit exhausted, truth be told."

Adam gave William an appraising look. "Aye, he does at that," he said. "I shall do my best to get him off his feet."

William gawked at them. Mary's grin matched Adam's as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"It's cooler in the pantry," she said, and her braid flipped behind her as she walked out.

William stared at the swinging door, his blood-starved brain struggling to catch up with what had just occurred. Adam cocked his head and grinned from beneath his crooked cap, and William gave up the effort altogether.

"You heard the lady," Adam said.

"I did."

"Well, go on then – you gonna have your wicked way with me or what?"

William glanced at the door, then hooked a finger in his crinkled collar and jerked it fully open. "Too fuckin' right," he said, and ignored Adam's oof! of surprise as William pulled him nearly off his feet and dragged him into the pantry.

20.

April 22nd, 1922

William was out of bed before the second knock sounded, before he was fully awake or even fully aware of the sound itself. He blinked in the darkness – the knocking came again and he snatched up his clothes. He nearly tripped over the loose floorboard as he crossed the room; swearing under his breath, he rubbed the grit from his eyes and pulled open the bedroom door.

Mary stood there. Her hair was unbound, hanging free to where her floral robe tied at her waist. The thin light coming up from the stairwell made her appear ghostly and colorless. She hugged herself against the night air as William fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He took one look at her face and knew exactly what her words would be.

"It's Adam," she said.

William only nodded, and grabbed his shoes as he followed her down the hall.

Downstairs it was a little lighter. The first shades of pink streaked the sky as dawn approached, and nearly every window along Wicklow Street was lit from within. Outside William could hear footsteps, streetcar bells clanging and dogs barking; from far away came an occasional crackling sound, like corn popping in the next room. It was a sound William had heard before.

Inside the pub minor chaos had erupted. William entered just as Gerald burst up from the cellar, carrying a box in his arms. The door to the kitchen had been propped open; Daniel Fisher and another young man hurried in and met Gerald at the door. Daniel took the box from Gerald and ran back outside, where a lorry had been parked close to the back alley door with its tarp rolled up. The other boy headed for the basement stairs; Gerald turned to follow him and almost collided with William as he came around the staircase.

"They've taken the Four Courts," he said.

"Who? English?"

Gerald shook his head. He had not stopped moving, and William had to follow him through the kitchen to hear.

"De Valera's men, about fifty of them. They've taken the block, cut off the Four Courts and all the buildings. They say they'll blow the place to hell if the Brits don't clear out for good. It'll be war now for sure."

William rubbed his face with both hands. "God." It was worse than he had feared. Worse than he could have imagined. He leaned against the door, using the cold air to sharpen his senses.

"The army will be pouring through this city any minute," Gerald said. "I have to get everything out of here now. It's lucky I am I've got no— Lord God, girl, I told you to get back in the house!"

William took the box Mary handed him and put it on the truck with the others. Ignoring Gerald's rebuke, she touched William's arm; he took her by the shoulders and spoke quickly.

"Where is he?"

"With them. He knows one of them and they've all gone out to help." Her face hardened with anger. "They're all out there now, running to their deaths, every goddamned one of them."

"Hold your tongue, Mary!" snapped Gerald.

This is it, William thought. The day for which he had spent months preparing had finally come, and he had been sound asleep. The army was on its way, and all of his friends were going to die. He shoved the last box into the truck and turned away toward the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" cried Gerald.

"I'm going to find them."

"No." Gerald yanked down the tarp and beat his palm on the back of the lorry; its engine revved as it sped away. "No, lad. Don't get yourself involved. There's naught you can do to help."

"Yes there is." William reached through the back door and grabbed his jacket from the coat rack. "I can stop them."

Gerald took hold of his arm. "You don't have to do this, son."

William looked at Mary; her face was grim, but her eyes were large and pleading.

"Yes I do."

Gerald nodded. He had his apron knotted behind his back – he reached into the fastenings and pulled out a small pistol. William took the gun and checked the bullets before tucking it into his belt, safe beneath his jacket at the small of his back.

"I'll bring them back," he said, and ran out of the alley.

William raced down Wicklow Street as fast as his feet would carry him, heading toward the column of thick black smoke rising against the morning sky. He ran through the neighborhoods he had called home for the past four months, their street corners and store fronts now crowded with onlookers, familiar faces blurring as he passed. The sound of clanging bells and shrieking whistles grew louder with each passing block, until he turned a corner and The Four Courts spread out before him. He stopped where he stood, his mouth falling open.

The sun had risen over the quay, piercing through the layers of smoke and glinting off shards of broken windows. The Four Courts were scorched and battered, four black blocks against the morning sky. The garden in the square was gone, trodden flat under the tracks of tires and feet; the benches where ladies once sat had been overturned and piled together into spiked barriers around the plaza. The buildings appeared empty, but their upper windows bristled with the points of a dozen rifles. The square had gone deathly silent.

There were barricades across Church and Chancery – giant, jagged stretches of rubbish and brick and broken furniture. Smoke hung in the air, but not the thick clouds of a fire; this smoke was thin and hazy, hovering just at the broken windows of the records office and municipal building – the acrid, lingering smoke of gunfire.

The police had already sealed off the square; they ringed the barricades with lines of men on horseback, shouting at the crowd to stay back. A mass of people surged against them, some trying to get a closer look, some jeering and waving their fists. The air seethed with tension – from the crowd, from the police, from the black hulks of the overrun buildings. William heard taunts and curses carried back on the breeze, sounds he recognized with clear, stinging familiarity. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight. The store awnings fluttered in the wind.

I know that something larger is coming.

"No," William said.

He ran forward into the street. He had spent most of his life evading unwanted attention; it was second nature for him to slip through the crowd unnoticed. His ears picked up snatches of conversation—

"—how many inside?"

"—said they'd blow the place up first—"

"—police'll call the Brits—"

—while his keen eyes searched every face he passed. He recognized scores, but among them he found none of the reckless fools he sought. At last he came around a back alley, dodging a small group of policemen on horseback, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath before looking around again. He saw nothing – but a heartbeat later he heard an unmistakable voice.

"Let go of me, you bastards!"

They were at the other end of the alley, crouched behind a pile of crates at the corner of the eastern barricade. The crowd was sparse on this side of the street, as most of the action was focused at the front of the Courts and the Free State policemen attempting to keep order there. Shane Kelly peered over the edge of the wall, poised like an animal stalking a long-hunted prey; beside him, Andy and David were trying to pull Adam down as he attempted to climb over the pile of jagged wood.

"Stop it, boy, you're not getting yourself killed."

"Let go of me, David, I swear on my mother I'll—"

William heard nothing else beyond the sound of his feet on the cobblestones.

Adam saw him first; in his surprise he lost his hold and fell back to the alley floor, knocking Andy and David over in the process. They turned just as William dropped to his knees beside them.

"Glasgow, what the hell are you doing here?" Andy said.

William shook his head. No time. He could feel it in his lungs, memory and intuition mixing into something close to panic, ratcheting his pulse with every breath.

"You have to get out of here," he gasped. "Now. You can't be here, you've got to—"

"Who the fuck are you to tell us what we can and can't do?" Kelly's face had gone mottled with bloodlust. "Why don't you fuck off back to Scotland and mind your own—"

David grabbed his arm. "Knock it off, Shane. He's here to help, like we all are."

"No." William spoke as quickly as possible. "You've got to listen to me. We have to get away from here right now. I don't have time to explain, just please—"

Andy swore beside them; Adam had bolted again, leaping forward to scramble up the pile of crates. Andy seized him round the waist and dragged him down bodily— "Do that again and I'll lay you flat, love" —and then turned to William.

"He's got a mate in there. We've been holding him back all morning. Sure we all want to fight, Glasgow, but we'd prefer not to be fish in a barrel."

Adam was looking up at a window high in the records building, where a dark shape could be seen hovering just out of sight of the police rifles.

"We were at school together," he said. "I didn't even know he was with..."

"Listen to me, Adam." William saw all their faces turn toward him, but he could no longer afford to keep up appearances. The tone in his voice was one none of them had ever heard from him, and he put everything he could muster into it. "Listen. You can't help him. We don't have time for this, we have to get out of here right now. They're coming."

From high above came a sudden cry: "Adam!" They looked up to see a pale face in the records office window, smudged with soot and blood, eyes huge with fear.

"Cory!" Adam shouted.

"Adam, get out of there, they're bringing in the—"

The last of the sentence was drowned out by a deafening burst of gunfire. Women screamed and the crowd began to flee as a dull roaring grew louder in the streets behind them. Three tanks emerged at the edge of the Courts and Free State soldiers poured in from all sides. The crowd parted before them, some running for cover, some stopping to throw rocks and bottles. Those nearest the front pulled out their pistols as rifle fire erupted from the windows of the four buildings.

They ran, dragging Adam behind them, who turned with a final cry of "Cory!" before a shell hit the bricks and sent them all diving for cover. William pulled them together and led them down a small side street, then a side alley, his eyes sharp for the quickest exit, his panic dissipated by the impulse to protect. They ran away from the chaos as fast as they could, and the sounds of the battle began to lessen as they turned around the next corner.

"Stop!"

There were at least ten of them, crisp green uniforms, guns at the ready, blocking the only exit.

"Stop there," called the officer. "Hands up – slowly now."

William stepped forward by instinct. He moved in front of the others with his arms spread, palms up. From the corner of his eye he saw Kelly flip his jacket open an instant before ten rifles raised and cocked as one. He leapt forward. "No!"

"Young? Young, is that you?"

William squinted in the shadows. The British officer was backlit, his features obscured by the glare; he walked forward and came into focus, and William's throat went dry as he recognized the face beneath the officer's cap.

"Aye, it's me."

The officer lowered his gun and his face broke into an incredulous grin. "Good God, Young! What the devil are you doing here? You nearly got your fool self killed!" He spoke absently to his squad: "Stand down, men." The rifles lowered, but the faces on both sides of the alley remained deathly tense.

"I haven't seen you in – Christ, must be nine years now. Not since we left training in London."

William felt the air grow cold behind him.

Please, he thought, just let us go. Just let us go.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here? Are you on assignment?"

There could be no other answer now, if he wanted to save their lives.

"Aye."

A group of police on horseback galloped past the alley. Fires could be heard crackling in a building behind them; shots rang out somewhere on the other side of the square.

"Look, you'd better get your men out of here now, Young. Our orders are to shoot first and ask for identification later. You're damned lucky it was me that saw you or they'd be shipping you back to Glasgow in a box next week."

"Is there a way out of here?"

"Go back east. The army's cleaning everything up by the river and the Courts. They oughtn't to stop you going the other way. Just get out of here, man, now." The squad stepped back at his gesture and opened a path to the street.

They hurried through the exit, one man at a time. William paused at the end and put a hand on his old classmate's shoulder.

"Thank you, Oliver," he said.

"Take care of them, Young," the captain replied, and stood aside to let William pass.

The noise grew muted behind them as the five men rushed back toward the pub. They rounded a corner into a tiny side street; no one could be seen in either direction. William looked behind to see if anyone had followed them – there was no one, and his breath came a little easier. He turned back just in time to meet the full arc of Shane Kelly's swinging fist.

Lights exploded behind his eyes; he barely had time to hit the pavement before Kelly hauled him up and slammed him to his back against the wall. His forearm crushed against William's windpipe, choking off his air – a second later the barrel of a pistol cut into the soft skin below William's chin.

"You fucking English bastard," he spat. "Fucking knew it, blow your goddamn brains into the fucking gutter you lying piece of shite."

William braced himself against the wall, gaining a foothold against Kelly's unstable balance. He took inventory of weight, leverage and distance, even as black spots began to dance before his eyes. One hand clutched at Kelly's arm against his throat; the other began to inch toward the pistol in his belt.

"Shane, stop it!" David yelled. "Let's get out of here before they come this way!"

"Fooled them all, didn't you?" Kelly's spit hit William's face in tiny drops. "Yeah? But you never fooled me, did you, Prod? No, you never did. Been waiting for this, I have."

William's knees buckled; he used the shifting angle to brace himself for the sudden push. His heartbeat roared in his ears, growing louder and louder as it began to slow and his vision ebbed gray at the edges. His fingers curled around the grip of his pistol and tightened.

"Stop."

Kelly didn't blink. "Fuck off, Elliot, he's not your chum anymore."

Adam appeared at his elbow and spoke again. "Stop."

He's a fucking spy, man! He's with them, didn't you hear it?"

Adam did not move. His features had turned to smooth stone; he did not look at William but kept his gaze fixed on Kelly as he spoke a single, quiet sentence.

"I will deal with this."

Kelly hesitated, scowling, then stepped back and withdrew his pistol. William coughed and retched and spat a thick glob of blood onto the pavement; as he gasped for air he looked up at Adam, not yet able to speak.

Adam stared into William's eyes for the space of one heartbeat. His face was a blank mask, and his eyes were flat and dull – but beneath them kindled a cold light that made William's bruised throat tighten. Adam gave no further response, to him or to anyone, before he turned around and walked out of the alley.

21.

Emptied of all its contents, the space beneath the floorboard in William's room seemed cavernous and barren. Laid out on the bed, though, it didn't seem like all that much: two notebooks, a pencil box, and the report from the Director's office, smudged with dust instead of fingerprints or ink. Everything fit neatly into William's monogrammed briefcase, leaving plenty of room for the few extra belongings he had collected over the past four months.

He packed quickly and efficiently, but he did not hurry. There was no point in hurrying now – a slinking retreat would only add insult to already substantial injury. Best to just ease out the blade as quickly as possible and prevent further rupturing. The job was over. It was time for him to go.

The door creaked behind him and cool air from the stairwell brushed against his legs. He knew exactly how long Adam had been standing there, watching him – he could see the shadow on the sunlit wall, feel the eyes burning into his back. William kept packing. The silence grew louder as the minutes ticked by, but still he did not turn. He was not yet ready to pass through that door.

He set a stack of neatly-folded shirts aside and checked each drawer for anything he might have missed. He placed each found object on top of the bureau: a penny whistle he won at the street fair in March; two folded five-pound notes, the winnings from last week's cards; a spool of darning thread (If you're set on walking about in your stocking feet, William Young, then sure you can mend your socks yourself); two matchbooks, and a pack of Black Jack chewing gum. In the second drawer his hand closed on soft green and brown striped wool. Mary had bought him the scarf three weeks ago when he'd left his own in Daniel's lorry after a crowded ride home. The lads had given him hell for that one, especially when Mary told him how well the green brought out his eyes. It had been a Thursday night, he recalled, and rainy; the first night Gerald had called him "son". William's bruised throat ached. He swallowed painfully and rolled the scarf into a ball before tucking it into the suitcase.

"How did your parents die?"

It was the same toneless voice from the alley, but quieter now, stretched a little thinner. William answered without turning.

"Exactly as I said. I never lie about my parents."

"How noble of you."

"I'm not going to do this, Adam." He closed the bureau drawer and dropped the last items into the suitcase. "I'm going to finish packing my things, and then I'm going to walk out of here and leave you all in peace."

"Time to run again, is it?"

He turned. Adam leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, shoulders squared and head resting against the frame. He regarded William with that same careful expression, but his jaw clenched a little too hard and his fingers dug a little too tightly into the flesh of his arms. He said nothing else, only looked at William from beneath lowered brows, his mouth set, his pulse beating in his neck. William had prepared himself for shouting, swearing, cutting words and well-deserved insults – but this icy silence suddenly unnerved him. It thickened between them, dense and palpable, the last barrier between his guilt and his escape. A row he could handle and curses he could take, but William was not sure how much longer he could stand the weird purgatory of that unwavering stare.

"You should go, Adam. Just... You should go."

"No." His expression did not change, but a muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. "You don't get to run this time. Not yet. Not until you tell me..." The last word did not come, but William could see it in his eyes.

He closed his briefcase with a small click and set it on the bed. Then he reached up and drew his shirt collar aside, past his scar, all the way back until it reached the thickened tissue on his right shoulder.

"Do you know how I got this?"

Adam said nothing.

"The day I was shot, my Gran was too afraid to take me to hospital. She mended my neck herself, in our kitchen, with her darning needle and a sewing lamp. She had my sister boil the water because it took her and both my uncles to hold me down. By the time it was ready Meg's hands were shaking so fierce she dropped the kettle straight off the stove onto my bed." He straightened his collar and made a noise that vaguely resembled a chuckle. "Gran stuck me in ice water and bandaged me with cheesecloth. It took two weeks for the fever to pass.

"She had just lost her son and his wife, and she wouldn't take her grandson to a doctor for fear of going out in the street. I swore then – I won't have any more children grow up like that. I want no more of men dying and boys living to take their place. That's the only thing I have ever—" His words gave out, and he shook his head. "I wanted to tell you. I tried to tell you."

He would not prolong this with further discussion; it would only make things worse. He of all men knew when it was best to cut your losses and walk away. Adam was just too young to know when to let go.

"They're using you, you know."

"No one uses me."

"You're working for the people who killed your parents. What else would you call it?"

William felt his hands clench into fists. "What do you think this is, Adam? You think you can move a few boxes in the dark, skim off a few pounds and buy your brother back? Make yourself a hero while you're at it? You've no idea what the real world is like. People are dying, and you're going to be one of them if you don't open your eyes."

For the first time, the smooth façade over Adam's face cracked. "You think I don't know death? I watched my mother bleed her lungs out because we couldn't find a doctor would come to our street. I watched my brother get shot full of holes and dragged off to be tossed on a boat for America. I've seen men beaten and shot and hung. This might be a job to you, but it's my fucking life. I live every day knowing it could be gone tomorrow. You know the same, and so you choose not to live at all." He came up off the door jamb and stepped into the room. "I know what I am, and I know what I'm good for, which isn't much. But I would rather die than get duped into fighting for the wrong side."

"There is no right and wrong here. There's only sides."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

William turned back to his suitcase. "Look, none of this matters now. What's done is done. My reasons are my own, and I won't waste my breath. You go ahead and hate me all you need to."

"It's not hate I have for you," Adam said. "It's pity."

William's hand went still on top of the suitcase.

"You hate them as much as I do – I can see it in your eyes. You work for them to ease your conscience, to make yourself think you're so high and mighty, bestowing justice on us poor misguided souls – but you'd put a bullet in all their backs if you could. Sure you pulled a fine trick out there, but that's only the half of it. I know you. I know who you really are."

Something dark bubbled up in the back of William's throat. "You know nothing about me."

"I know you turned traitor for the men who shot your father dead in the street. They've deceived you, William. Can't you see that?"

"Don't you fucking—" William swallowed the wave of anger and took a steadying breath. "You don't know anything about what I want. I'm trying to end all this."

"They killed your parents, man!"

William slammed the case aside and whirled on him. "This killed my parents!" He pointed at the window with a finger that shook with fury. "All of this, all you fucking people, all these years, everywhere! It's all the same! A fucking waste, that's what it is, and I want it over! I want it stopped! I want—" He ran out of breath, and tried again. "Don't you talk to me about deception. You don't know a damn thing about real deception. You only know the lies you tell the girls you peg and the men who think you're serving same cause they are.

You think I've been used? Ask Sarah Reilly what she thinks about being used." He saw the color rise in Adam's face and dug in harder. "We are the same, Adam. You use your brother as I use my father. You don't want justice. You want revenge. You want a reason to be worth something more than a box of rifle shells and a shag in the cellar."

"You shut your mouth." Adam's face grew dark, his body lined with rage. His hands dropped to his sides as he moved forward. "How dare you. I am nothing like you. You come in here and lie and pretend and take us all for our trust, and then you want to tell me about honesty? Well fuck you." His voice was rising in both volume and pitch. "You're not the only one protecting his folk. I know exactly what I'm doing. I take care of them, all of them. It's called allegiance, William – something you wouldn't know about. This is the only family I've got. I love them. I loved—"

His voice cracked and he looked away. Gone were all traces of the smooth-talking rake, the swaggering gunrunner, the silver-tongued lover; in his place stood a pale and skinny boy whose eyes shone with raw, glistening hurt. William had expected an outburst; he was well prepared for spite and vitriol. Bitterness, anger, hatred – all those things he knew. Adam's wrath he could take, but not this – not the sudden pain welling up in his eyes, the bright, swelling overflow of a breaking heart.

William had left hatred behind in his wake before; the look on Adam's face he would never leave behind for the rest of his days.

Break it clean, he thought. Not this. You have to break it clean.

"You loved what? Me? Do you love me, Adam?"

His voice was little more than a whisper. "Yes."

William's left hand closed into a fist against his thigh. He dug his fingernails in as hard as he could – sharp, glassy pain, loud and focused. He tightened his grip until he could no longer feel the sting; then his hands relaxed at his side. He lowered his brow and tilted his head, curling his mouth into a sneer.

"Well I guess I got the job done after all, then."

Adam's eyes went wide for one terrible moment. All the color drained from his face. And then his body stiffened, and his eyes narrowed into slits. "Aye, I guess you did." His voice was thick with disgust, but William could hear the tremor beneath. "And fucking me? Was that part of your job, too?"

"My job was to get all the information I could out of you people." He used the phrase on purpose, cutting, punishing. "Fucking you was just a bonus."

He took a step toward Adam, then another, slow and predatory, fighting the bile in this throat. Only way, his mind told him. Only way.

"Getting into your heads was one thing; getting into your bed was even better." He smiled. "Reckoned if I chose the whore at least I'd enjoy the work."

"You bastard." Adam moved for him but he was too fast – Adam's fury made him clumsy and it was easy for William to grab him and turn, one quick shove and his chest hit the bureau and shook the drawers in their brackets. His cap fell off and William kicked it aside as he pushed the bedroom door closed with his foot. Then he leaned up hard, twisting Adam's arm into his back from behind; when Adam tried to break free; William' s grip tightened until he grunted in pain.

"Did you trust me, boy? Hm?" William said into his ear. "Poor Adam. The little fighter, yeah? Gonna make your brother proud? Gonna save your friends from the big bad English? You couldn't even save them from me."

Adam's face contorted into a crimson scowl, pushing back the tears in his eyes. "Cac ar oineach," he spat. "You lying British fuck. You don't know us. I'll look after them. I'm— I'll keep them safe."

"Oh aye?" William's lips brushed against Adam's ear. "The way you kept Kevin safe?"

He was ready for the movement but unprepared for its ferocity. He barely had time to step back as Adam spun; he turned his head, but Adam's fist still caught him on the face with most of its force. His blood was too high to feel more than a dull crack; he had already straightened by the time Adam knocked the chair aside and came for him.

William's mind had reached an odd sort of clarity. He felt as if he were watching himself from somewhere outside the room. He dodged the next blow easily and swung his fist up hard into the soft spot just below Adam's ribs; before he could stumble back, William grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him forward, two quick punches, swift and precise to the weakest points in his belly. He made a choked sound and doubled over; William's knuckles split the skin above his cheekbone and he fell to the floor.

William looked down at him. Blood pooled beneath his nose, and his cheek was already swelling to a dark purple; he cradled his midsection and glared up at William, wheezing as his tears cut through the blood on his face. His eyes no longer shone with pain or sadness or loss – now they glittered with the cold light of bitter, deadly hatred.

William had a sudden memory of a low voice in his ear, a nudging softness against his neck. He pulled the words from that quiet place and tossed them to the floor where Adam had fallen.

"There now."

Something closed inside his chest. The bruises on his cheek and jaw throbbed, but the buzzing in his head quieted and then ceased. There now, he thought again. He looked down at Adam for a moment longer; then he stepped over to the bed, picked up his cases, laid his jacket across his arm, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving Adam to bleed on the floor behind him.

22.

April 25, 1922

The spring sun sparkled across the polished mahogany of Lord Christopher's office, but enough chill lingered in the walls to make William shiver a little beneath his jacket. His hands, clasped behind his back, gripped tighter until the shivering stopped. His spine remained arrow-straight, his eyes fixed on a spot at the center of the mantle, blinking only when they began to burn.

Christopher's back still faced him, clad in a tailored black suit that soaked up what little warmth came from the window where he stood. He looked through the panes of glass, fingering a bit of drape with one hand. His waxed silver hair gleamed in the sunlight. He had not spoken in over ten minutes. There was no fire crackling in the hearth; no clack of typing from the black-haired receptionist, no noise of traffic filtering in from the street, not even a bird chirping outside the spotless windows. The minutes passed, marked by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner; beyond that there was only the constant, deafening silence, unable to distract William from the thoughts prickling at the back of his eyes.

He stood there and waited, looking at Christopher's back but seeing Gerald's face, the look in his eyes as William came down the stairs, cases in hand. The ring of icy, damning stares following him as he passed. Mary's voice, small and trembling: William? He had managed a quick "I'm sorry, lass" before her father grabbed her arm, but he could have said no more anyway. How large her eyes had grown when she saw his battered face; how her voice had followed him out the door as she rushed up the stairs. Adam? Adam! The sound of it had lingered in his ears long after Wicklow Street was far behind him.

"Do they know who is behind the takeover?"

Christopher had not turned; he was not looking at William but still gazing at the morning outside. William stared at the lines of his suit, the crisp fold of his collar. He heard Adam's voice shouting hoarse across the plaza. Cory!

"No, sir," he said.

The Director turned then. He regarded William indifferently; one eyebrow arched in a vague fashion. "Of course not."

He turned to his desk and reached for the crystal service. In the sunlight the claret was the color of blood.

"Well. So now your cover is blown, Agent Young. You can no longer pretend to be one of the merry band, just as you can no longer pretend to be the competent agent I believed you to be."

William said nothing. His back was beginning to ache; his locked knees sent tiny stabs of numbness into his legs and feet.

"Oh, don't mistake me – I fully expected you to fall in with their cause. I knew that from the first day you came into this office. One need only take a single look at you to know you're a step away from the revolution yourself. I'm afraid it can't be helped in these sorts of situations – it's inevitable that your kind will band together in the end. Still, I had hoped that I would be able to extract bit more from you before you turned up dead in the street. The agency did pay quite a lot to have you sent over here, after all. You could have at least had the decency to earn your boat fare."

William was looking at the knot work carved into the mantle – smooth Celtic braids, looping and spiraling above the empty fireplace. The polished curves gleamed in the sunlight like the coils of an ancient serpent.

His drink prepared, the Director took a seat in his chair. "I was certain I should see you hanging from a noose when all this was done. Imagine my disappointment when you failed me in both my expectations." Glancing at William's face, he added, "Though it would seem others were less reserved in their disappointment than I." He smiled at that, pleased with his own wit. William did not allow his bruised cheek to twitch.

Christopher finished his drink in three delicate sips; he placed the empty tumbler on the tray and then reached into a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a fresh manila folder, stamped with the insignia of the MI5. It slid across the desk with a flat sound.

"Your ticket to London expires in two days."

William's mouth opened. "Sir?"

"Do have a nurse take a look at you before you leave the office. I expect you to have yourself presentable by the time you report to headquarters."

It took William several seconds to compose himself enough to form a reply. "I thought— Sir, I was under the impression I was to be relieved after this assignment."

"I do not recall thinking being one of your recruitment requirements." The Director's fingers folded together atop the blotter on his desk. His posture remained graceful, but now his eyes flashed with something far less stately.

"Allow me to correct any other false impressions you may have collected, Agent. You do not earn your way out of His Majesty's service. You will do as you are told without question until this agency sees fit to release you, or you will exit this profession entirely and in disgrace. I should think that after your spectacular failure you would be grateful for the chance to redeem yourself, but I see I have overestimated you yet again.

"Do not mistake my leniency for forgiveness – it is only my desire to avoid bringing even more negative attention to this office that precludes me having you thrown in Reading for the charade you tried out there. Now you will take this ticket and return to London, where you will be given your first assignment according to your new term of service." His eyes gleamed with pale spite. "And if any of your associates attempt to contact you in any way, you will inform me immediately. You may tell them that if any one of them so much as takes an afternoon stroll in the vicinity of the Four Courts, they will be shot on sight. Is that understood, Agent?"

William's mouth closed. The crushing dismay in his chest fell steadily back as Christopher spoke, and now drained out of him altogether, leaving only a peculiar calm. His clenched jaw softened; the tension ebbed from his shoulders, and his hands relaxed at his sides. He blinked through dull eyes at the Director's genteelly gloating face. He no longer felt the throbbing in his cheek and jaw, the hot scraping swathe across his throat. He no longer felt anything at all.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I understand."

23.

May 19, 1922

The kitchen was dark as William entered. The stove and icebox had become black shapes against the gloom, the pots and pans hanging in rows of dangling shadows above him, the tile floor cold beneath his bare feet. He moved forward by instinct, his eyes darting in the darkness, furtive, searching. The pantry door stood slightly ajar; a single sliver of light uncurled across the floor toward him. His feet made small flat sounds on the tile as he slowly approached. He eased the door open and slipped through without letting the hinges creak.

An oil lamp burned on the flour barrel, lighting the pantry to a dim haze. William crept forward, peering into the shadows; the door closed behind him and he turned, startled. Adam leaned against the door, his hand still curled around the knob.

"You're late," he said.

The door rattled on its hinges from the force of their weight. Adam grunted when they turned and his back hit the brick wall, but his hands were already working at the buttons of William's trousers. His fingers closed around what he sought and squeezed in wordless invitation. William slid both hands between their bodies and jerked at hindering fabric, fumbling and impatient, until they both were free; then he grabbed Adam by the shoulders and pressed up hard, and their perfect rhythm began.

William dropped his face into the crook of Adam's neck. He braced his forearms against the bricks, held up by Adam's hands and the momentum of their movements. Adam's throat was florid beneath William's mouth, vibrating with sounds that became words. "Love you...Will..." He couldn't last long, he never could like this, not with Adam writhing in his arms and moaning with each harsh rasp of his back against the bricks. Sweat ran down their bellies, slick with their quickening pace; William took Adam's earlobe in his mouth, and the sound Adam made was all he needed to swear and shudder as his back arched and his belly shook beneath hot, sticky warmth. He thrust again, and again, his tremors holding Adam against the wall until the last wave passed and he collapsed against Adam's neck and gasped for breath.

He leaned there, sweating, breathing against the curve of Adam's throat. Sated, his impatience ebbed to mischief, and he drew his tongue lazily up the salty skin. The flavor there had changed; too metallic for sweat, something thicker and viscous against his tongue. Adam moved beneath him, straining against his softening body; but now his skin was dank and clammy, the vein in his neck cold against William's lips. No pulse fluttered there. The taste of copper grew stronger in William's mouth. He opened his eyes.

Adam's head lolled to the side when William drew back. The ring of purple around his throat swelled stark and torn, stained by the dark blood oozing from his ears and mouth. His broken vertebrae poked mismatched lumps against the side of his neck. His filmy eyes glittered; his cold hands held William fast; he licked his blue lips and squirmed, whispering from his horrible ruined face.

"C'mon, William. Finish it."

William cried out and flailed backward, but Adam's hands were a vise on his waist, pinning them together at the hips, their bodies making wet squelching sounds as he struggled. Blood coated William's hands and stomach from the two bullet holes in Adam's chest, leaking down his white vest, splattered across the bricks behind him. William made a choked noise and twisted until he wrenched himself free and stumbled away; Adam's crushed neck bent obscenely as he looked up at William with tears spilling from his dead eyes, diluting the blood crusted beneath his nose.

"Finish it, William," he said. "You have to finish it, please, William, I want it to be you..." He slid down the wall, red smears across the brick and William put his hands over his face and screamed without a sound, reeling blindly and falling back into the darkness, down and down and down—

William flung himself awake so violently that he almost fell out of the bed. He grabbed the nightstand to steady himself as his lungs struggled to draw in a breath; his other hand batted at his face, wiping at his mouth and cheeks. His palm came away dry and clean. For one convulsive moment he was very nearly sick – and then his heart began to settle and the breath slowly returned to his chest. The tendrils of the nightmare began to fragment in the cool air from the open window, and William looked at the bedroom around him and shivered. He peeled the sheet from his body, wincing at the wet warmth between his legs; when he was certain he could stand, he pulled himself to his feet and walked naked across the darkened room.

The hotel room had a loo of its own, a luxury William had never been able to boast. No expense was spared in His Majesty's Service, and even the lavatories seemed no exception: tile floor, claw foot tub, silver taps, polished mirror gleaming in the sterile light. A small room, but clean and tidy, with electric bulbs glaring over him as he looked into the mirror. The face that looked back at him was not as well-kept.

He splashed his face with cold water until he felt the strength creep back into his legs; then he stepped into the tub and pulled the chain on the shower. He would not close his eyes when he put his head beneath the spray. When the hot water ran out William turned off the shower and reached for a towel – two a day, every day since he'd been here. No expense spared. He walked back to the sink and stood there, watching his reflection blur in the steam. He drew his hand across the glass and wiped off a patch of clarity.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes. The dreams came every night now – dreams of blood and horror and death, dreams of skin and sweat and heat. They had always dissolved to fragments in the light of day, but now they came too fast, hiding behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He could not shake the remnants of his vision, or the cold feeling still knotted in his chest.

His shaving kit sat beneath the medicine cabinet. William glanced at it, then at his face, and then he rubbed his jaw and reached for the brush. There was a sort of comfort in this ingrained habit, this set of methodical movements; he spread the warm soap across his face, then picked up his razor and scraped a slow, careful stroke down his cheek.

His father had not taught him how to shave. As a child he had sat on the floor countless times and watched his father squint into the mirror above the basin, wiping the blade on his sleeve, but he had never played along with a comb or the back of a butter knife. It seemed like something that only men did, and William had known he was far from being a man. He had been content to watch the razor flash in the light as it moved down his father's face, guided by a steady hand.

Once, he asked: "Does it hurt, Da?"

"Sometimes. But that just means you're going too fast, or your blade is not the best." His father looked down at him, his face still half-dotted in soap, and winked.

"If anything hurts you that much, wee man, it's likely you're not doing it right."

Outside in the bedroom, his belongings lay arranged in their usual tidy order. His shoes peeked from the edge of the bed, side by side and pointing out. His briefcase with its stacks of files lay on the table with the evening newspapers scattered around it. Day 28 at the Four Courts, read the Times. Four rioters shot by Free State police. And the Independent: The Fighting Continues. When will our City be safe again? Atop the stack lay an envelope stamped with the seal of the MI5. Inside it was William's assignment: he would leave King's Cross four hours from now on a second class train bound for northern England. Suspected tax fraud in a group of unionists. Not all punishment required a ball and chain.

William shaved slowly, blinking at his reflection through the steam. The razor slipped in his fingers and he winced; bright blood welled up and trickled down his throat, catching on the line of his scar. He watched it pool along the raised skin.

You love what you bleed for, his father had once said. And sooner or later, you bleed for what you love.

William wiped the traces of foam and blood from his face and dropped the towel on the floor. He closed his shaving kit and carried it out with him into the bedroom, where the first tinges of gray dawn had begun to replace the stark moonlight. William's skin prickled in the cool air as he dressed himself carefully, snapped his suitcase closed, and reached for his jacket.

From inside his jacket pocket he withdrew an envelope labeled in his own handwriting: Official Notice, Agent to Headquarters. He propped the letter against the stack of files and picked up his identification card. William Young, On His Majesty's Service. The stock paper made a heavy ripping sound as he tore it in two. William held the halves in his hands for moment; then he lay the pieces face down in front of the letter, picked up his suitcase, and walked out of the hotel room, not bothering to switch off the lamp behind him.

Dearest Meg,

Today I will wire you the majority of this month's pay. There will not be another. I told you that this assignment would be my last, and so it shall. I cannot say anything more right now, but my work here is over. You once told me that I am not what they want me to be. You were right. I am not what anyone wanted me to be, least of all myself.

There is only one more thing I must do before I come home. It is a dangerous thing – likely the most dangerous thing I have ever done. There is a possibility that I will not return. I don't tell you this to worry you – I tell you this because if the worst should happen, this letter will be the only notification you ever receive. If you have not heard from me three weeks from today, burn this letter and tell no one you received it.

I know you don't understand, Meg, and I am truly sorry. I will explain everything when I get home. I pray that will be soon. I love you, my dear sister. It's likely I am too late, that I will not be able to be of any help or do what it is that I am setting out to do. But I would never be able to look you or your daughters in the face again if I did not try. I have to do what's right. And if the worst should befall me, then when I see Mum and Da I'll tell them I did the best I could.

It's not over yet.

All my love,

William

24.

May 25, 1922

Summer bloomed on the streets of Dublin. The sky above the chimneys was blue, only slightly stained by coal smoke; the brick and stone caught the sunlight and nurtured it to a welcome warmth. It had rained the day before – the everyday smells of mud and rubbish were temporarily washed away, leaving the city clean with the scent of wood fires and salt air brought in by the wind. On a day like this the crowds should have been out in full, shopping and socializing in the Saturday markets – men in their shirt sleeves and women in linen blouses, picking through the cherry harvest and wandering through booths filled with fresh flowers and new dresses. But on this Saturday morning the streets were nearly empty despite the beautiful weather. Instead of lively chatter there was only a tense and muted murmuring, broken by the occasional streetcar bell or barking dog, and in the distance hummed the faint sound of lorry engines.

William could feel eyes on him as he walked down Wicklow street. The whispers grew bolder, rustling like leaves in his wake; three times he heard his name spat out in the snatches that reached his ears. He kept his gaze straight ahead and walked. In front of the cloth shop two women turned their backs as he passed; another pulled her child behind her as if to remove him from the reach of William's poisonous shadow. William kept walking.

The pub sign swung a little as he took hold of the doorknob and then paused. He looked at the front window; in the freshly cleaned glass, his reflection squared its shoulders. The doorbells jingled loudly as he entered.

The bar had been restocked with spring shipments, new wine and old whisky and the glasses all gleaming on their shelves. The chairs stood turned up on their tables with his broom propped in the far corner. His apron no longer hung on its peg. At first he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the indoor light he saw a figure bent before the fireplace, scraping the last of the winter ashes from the hearth. He didn't move as the door closed behind him, but the friendly greeting came at once: "A good morning to you, friend, can I help?" When there was no reply, Gerald straightened from his work and turned around.

William wondered how he must have looked, standing there on the welcome mat – unshaven, sleep-deprived, hollowed-out and drifting at the end of an unraveling rope. Could the past month be seen on his face, in the yellowed bruises there? Did he look as battered as he felt? If so, Gerald gave no sign. He stared at William in silence, his face going carefully stiff. It made him look very old.

"William!"

Footsteps rang out as Mary came flying down the stairs. She ran into William's arms and embraced him fiercely – he put a hand on her hair, but his eyes remained on her father. Close behind her came Ruan, barking and thumping his tail madly as his paws scrabbled on the floor at William's feet.

Mary abruptly drew back, her face drawn with worry. "How did you— what are you doing here?"

At last, William found his voice. "I came to warn you." And then to Gerald: "I need to see Adam."

Gerald dropped his scraper into the hearth and wiped his hands across the front of his apron. "I don't know where Adam is," he said. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Da!"

"Go upstairs, Mary."

"But Da—"

"Do as I say, girl!" Gerald's eyes flashed; for an instant William could see what he must have looked like as a young man. It was a formidable sight.

Mary touched William's arm; she looked about to speak, but no words came, and her eyes filled with tears. All at once she turned away and fled back up the staircase. When she was gone, William expected to see fury rise in Gerald's face, abhorrence, disgust; he waited for the curses and the shouts of rebuke. Instead he heard only a single weary sentence.

"Haven't you done enough, lad?"

"Gerald, I don't— look, I'm not asking for anything. Just tell me where Adam is, and you'll never see me again. Please, I've got to find him."

"Find someplace else to ease your conscience. You'll get no absolution here." Gerald pulled his apron off and wiped his hands with it, then held it clenched in his fists. "I gave you my trust, boy. I brought you into my home, into my family—" His shoulders slumped. "They told me I was a fool to do it."

"No one has ever shown me kindness like you did," William said. "I never wanted you to get caught up in this. I tried to stop it. I was only trying to—" He sighed. "I never wanted this. "

Gerald shook his head. "You're not the man I thought you were."

And there was nothing William could say to that.

"Go home, William. Go back from where you came."

"I can't. I quit."

Gerald's eyes widened; William used the moment to press ahead. "They're coming, Gerald. It's not going to be good. My— the— the orders are show no mercy. I know Adam's going. I know what's in his mind. He'll get down there any way he can, and if he does, he's going to die. You've got to believe me. I know you can't trust me, but you've got to believe me." The words were tumbling out of him; in his exhaustion he felt himself close to panic. "Please, for the love of God, Gerald, tell me where he is. I swear on my life, I'm trying to save him. "

Gerald listened to William's pleas with no visible reaction. His face, always so robust and lively, looked tired and gray. Ruan, cowed by the hard voices, began to nudge at William's ankles; the gentle thumping of his tail and his whines for attention were the only sounds in the room for a long time. Then Gerald tied his apron around himself again and bent to retrieve his scraper from the ashes.

"I don't take the word of strangers."

William's gaze rose to the landing, where Mary clutched the banister with white knuckles, her face streaked with silent tears. William's heart ached. He turned to Gerald, who had already stooped back to his work, scraping in long harsh strokes at ashes the same color as his hair. William bent to give Ruan a gentle scritch behind the ear.

"You told me once that you were doing your part," he said. "I never knew what my part was until I came here. I will always be grateful to you for that."

Gerald did not respond, but William heard the trowel pause from its scraping when he opened the front door.

"Goodbye, Gerald," he said.

25.

May 27, 1922

William lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the watermarks on the ceiling. The bed was too short, and his bare feet were cold; but the lamp was turned up too high and the rest of him was warm, grimy skin slick against the naked mattress. The pillow under his head smelled of mothballs and lye soap that did little to disguise the traces of other, less pleasant odors. William took notice of none of these things; he blinked at the ceiling with bleary, unfocused eyes, counting the water spots over and over, restarting each time he lost count. It was possible he had fallen asleep, but he had no way of being sure and no desire to do much about that either.

The knock repeated three times before he registered the sound. It filtered slowly through the fog in his head until he realized it was indeed coming from the door and not from inside his pounding skull. Then it came again, a little louder this time, and William lurched to his feet. His first step stumbled through a pile of empty bottles – they clattered across the floor, and the shadow beneath the door froze. William reached for the pistol on the nightstand, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, and approached the door from the side.

"Aye?" His voice, unused in days, cracked on the word.

From the hall outside came a whisper: "William. It's me."

He opened the door and stood there, blinking. The figure in the hallway wore a long black coat with the collar turned up, but the hair peeking from beneath the black wool fisherman's cap was wispy and blonde.

"Mary?"

Her eyes bore the only bit of color about her; they grew large when she saw him, and larger still when she saw the pistol in his hand. William blinked stupidly at her, trying to focus his wits. "What— what are you doing here?"

She glanced behind her uneasily. "Please, may I come in?"

He stepped aside to let her pass and peered out into the hall. It was empty. William thumbed down the hammer of his pistol and shut the door as quietly as he could.

Mary stared in horror at the room around her: the dingy walls, the half-eaten food on the nightstand, the scattered newspapers and maps, the empty bottles and the full ashtrays. And then finally at William, as close to undressed as she had ever seen him, standing there in only his trousers with a loaded gun in his hand and three days of beard on his face. He could smell himself as he faced her.

"William...you..."

"Does your father know you're here?"

"No." Something like a smile touched her mouth. "Sure I haven't lived with men all my life without learning how to sneak around, have I?" She pulled off her hat; her hair was wrapped in a long braid around her head, frizzed with nighttime damp. William ran a hand through his own greasy hair.

"How did you find me?"

"You're not the only one good at learning things. Tis not very hard to ask around lodging houses for a stranger from Scotland."

William snorted; it was true enough. He dropped the pistol on the table and rubbed his face, stubble scraping his palms. "Look, Mary, you should not have—"

"I know where Adam is."

He lowered his hands. Mary stood before him with her arms crossed, back rigid and chin raised. She was pale with sorrow and worry, but underneath that blazed the fiery foundation that had drawn William to her from the beginning. She was as hard as he had ever seen her, fire in her eyes and steel in her voice.

"Are you going to arrest him?"

"What?"

"You tell me the truth, William. If I tell you where Adam is, are you going to arrest him?"

"I was never after Adam." It sounded so much worse spoken so bluntly, but he was too drunk for explanations. "I just need to— I've got to find him, Mary. I came back to find him."

She looked him over in keen silence, studying him, until finally she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and said, "I believe you."

Bully for you, William thought, but he was surprised by the depth of his relief. Mary's defensive posture relaxed, and though her frown remained, her voice was more scolding than scathing.

"Well if you were trying to help him, sure you missed the mark a bit when you beat him senseless and then ran away instead of explaining yourself. And I can't see as how you're going to find him when you're stewing in a filthy kip and smelling like a brewer's mule."

"I tried," William said petulantly. "I did try. You were there, you saw your father. It's no use. They won't listen to me."

"Adam could—"

"Adam hates me. When I left we— I—" Bile burned his throat and he looked away. "Adam hates me, and well he should."

"He's going to the Courts."

William's eyes closed.

"There's fighting all the time now – Collins says he'll bring in the army to clear out the trouble. Adam's going tomorrow and he won't listen to anyone, not anymore. He's going, William, and there's none of us can stop him." There was no need for her to add the last words – except you.

William felt dizzy; if there had been anything in his stomach, he would likely have lost it. He groped behind him until his hand closed on a chair and he dropped heavily onto it.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?" Mary said.

She had never been sheltered in all her life – he respected her too much to start now. "The orders are to shoot on sight. No exceptions."

"Then he's going to die."

"Yes."

"Then you have to stop him."

All his muscles seemed made of knots and water; the inebriated whine in his voice only added to his wretchedness. "I can't, Mary. I tried. I had my chance and I lost it. It's over. I failed."

"So you'll just give up on him now, then, is that it? After everything you've been through? After all you've lost, all you gave up, you'll come all this way back just to drink yourself into a stupor and drown in your own pity?" Her eyes caught his and held him fast, piercing him as sharply as her voice.

"It has to be you, William. You know that, or you wouldn't have come back. Whatever you did, I don't care, it doesn't matter now – all that matters is what made you come back. You said you wanted to make things right. You can't turn back now."

She touched his face; he looked up at her, and her eyes softened with her voice.

"If you love him, you will try."

"I will try," William said.

Through the night air came the faint chime of church bells tolling twelve. Mary looked toward the black square of the window. "I'd better get back. My da'll be knowing I slipped away."

"Aye lass. You should go." William hauled himself to his feet as best he could. The room spun more now from weariness than drink; he needed sleep, and badly, but he knew even as he swayed that he would have no rest. Not yet.

Mary pulled her hat back on and tucked her hair beneath it until every fair strand was hidden. When she was finished she stood there, hugging herself in her coat but not moving toward the door. She must have known this was their farewell; her eyes grew bright with moisture as her chin trembled once. "William..."

He went to her – his Mary, his dear friend, as good and strong and true as she was desperately beautiful. It was a simple motion to take her face in his hands. Her eyes opened wide, but they closed when he drew her to him. Her lips were warm, trembling at first, then softening as they parted. She held his waist to steady herself and shivered at what passed between them. Her eyes were still closed when William drew back; when they opened, a tear spilled down her cheek. For the briefest instant she drew her lower lip into her mouth.

"God go with you, Mary," William said.

She pressed her lips together until her chin stopped trembling. The tear slipped off her skin and disappeared. And then she smiled at him, a soft and beautiful thing.

"And with you, William."

William stood at the open window and watched until he could no longer see her tiny shape in the street below. He ran a knuckle across the cracked line of his mouth. He drew down the glass and reached over to turn off the lamp; then he pulled his chair to the window and sat there until the sun rose, watching the last place she'd been.

26.

May 28, 1922

The Four Courts looked like a war zone. The streets had been closed off to all traffic; barricades blocked the empty lanes and formed an impenetrable wall around the municipal buildings. They had been beautiful once – tall, proud symbols of the city, capital of the new Irish state. Now their windows were jagged holes bristling with rifle barrels, their stone walls pitted by artillery shells and blackened by smoke. Fires burned in rubbish barrels around the perimeter, creating a haze that lingered in the waning sunlight. It was no-man's-land in the middle of Dublin.

De Valera's boys had held the square for thirty-six days, keeping both police and army at bay with regular skirmishes without and threats of stockpiled dynamite within. No one knew exactly how much or what type of supplies the militants had, as several runs had slipped in and out without being detected by the police force guarding the area. They were everywhere now – patrolling the streets on foot, rifles at the ready, or holding back onlookers as best they could on their skittish horses. The crowds had been thick at first, supporters of both sides throwing rocks and throwing curses – now only the diehards remained, hiding among the barricades, huddled behind the rubble and waiting for the next fight. The ordinary citizens of Dublin crept past the outskirts of the spectacle, but they were more weary now than angry. All through the city there hung an air of waiting, of tension simmering under the surface, just beneath the tang of gun smoke. Both sides had dug in, and only an act of God would remove them.

William crouched behind a pile of lumber and peered across the back end of Chancery Street. He had used all his skills to slip through the outer lines of onlookers, and as far as he could tell he had been recognized by no one. But for all his luck in staying undetected, he had not managed to find the one face he was looking for; wherever Adam had chosen to hide himself, it was a spot much closer to danger than he had yet reached. If William could just find him quickly and get him out of this hellhole, no one would ever know either of them had been here. He only hoped that Adam had not yet made it inside the scarred buildings – or worse, had not made it.

A police officer passed by on horseback; William withdrew behind the rubbish until the hoof-beats passed. Then he leaned forward and peered out into the street – the coast was clear. He ran across the pavement and flattened himself against the wall. Most of the people in this area had gathered on the opposite side of the building; his side of the street was deserted. He turned to look down the east end, and was preparing to make his next move when a flash of movement caught his eye. Behind the next barricade, nearly invisible behind a stack of broken crates, three familiar figures squatted almost out of sight. William exhaled and thought: thank you. To whom he was speaking, he was not sure.

He could see before he moved that Adam was not among them. David was the closest, squatting behind a poultry crate with a rifle balanced between his legs. Kelly's dark shape skulked just behind him; above them, Andy peered through a chink in the barricade. William advanced without a sound, keeping his eyes on David as he moved, creeping forward to close the distance between them. Kelly had disappeared; William frowned, and opened his mouth to call out David's name.

"You son of a bitch."

He dropped by instinct; the bottle in Kelly's hand smashed against the bricks above William's head. He scrambled to move but Kelly was on him, using his weight to drive William backwards until they both fell to the ground. The blows came hard and fast, one-two-three – William threw an arm across his face as warm blood flowed into his eyes. He curled into himself, feeling each punishing blow, feeling his flesh bruise and his breath choke in his gut, closing his eyes against his penance.

And then, it was enough.

Something inside him snapped like the breaking of a twig, and every impulse William had ever known spewed from the rupture in a surge of wordless, opaque rage. He stopped the next punch with his palm, moving with wild speed to twist Kelly's arm behind him, flip him to his belly on the pavement, and straddle his back, one fist clutched in Kelly's hair to hold his face up off the ground, the other drawing his pistol and jabbing it into the base of Kelly's neck. His fingers shook with the force of what he held in check. His voice did not.

"I don't want to fight you, Shane. I just want to know where he is." When he got no response except a jerk and a grunt, William dug the pistol deeper and twisted his fistful of hair until Kelly yelped. "Tell me where Adam is."

Something cold pressed against William's ear as a shadow fell across him.

"Let him go, Glasgow."

William turned his head just enough to see David's face above him, dark against the sunlight. His eyes were grim, but he held the shotgun with two steady hands. Andy appeared behind him, eyes huge and mouth open. "Jesus!" he blurted, and said no more.

Kelly twitched in William's grasp. "Fucking shoot him, Ryan!"

William thought of long Saturday nights in the pub, rounds of whisky and games of cards, David's laughter mixed with Adam's. Fair-faced Davie Ryan, so merry and gentle, now gone stiff and stony with his eyes full of anger and hurt. He had come too far now – he only hoped David could see that in his face, and maybe understand. His desperation was all he had.

"I need to find him, David," he said. "Please."

David's eyes searched William's from over the shotgun's barrel. He said nothing for a long, agonizing moment, and then the pressure against William's temple wavered.

"You promise me you'll get him out of here."

"I swear it on my life."

Andy's eyes darted from David to William to Kelly and back again. Kelly's breath rasped against the stones and he writhed beneath William's weight. William did not move, and he did not take his eyes from David's.

David stepped back and lowered the shotgun. "He's coming up Bridge Street, round the back of the quay."

William exhaled. He eased the pistol from Kelly's neck and pushed the hammer down with his thumb, lowering it to the pavement. The adrenaline slamming through his heart began to ebb, and he lowered his head to take another steadying breath.

Across the square a storefront shattered beneath a tremendous explosion.

They hit the pavement hard, debris raining down all around them. Gunfire erupted on the other side of the municipal building with the scraping whine of tank tread over cobblestone streets. Women screamed as the gunfire intensified. The army.

"Shit!" Andy hauled William to his feet as Kelly scrambled up beside them. A wave of gritty smoke blasted over the barricade, obscuring their vision and stealing their air. David grabbed William by the shoulder and shoved him toward the street.

"Bridge Street! You get him out of here!"

"David—"

"Go, God damn it!" David coughed and raised an arm to cover his mouth.

William looked at all three of their faces, as best he could in the stinging wind. He grabbed his gun from the pavement and ran as fast as he could into the whirlwind.

It was bedlam: people ran in all directions, some trying to escape the incoming soldiers, others rushing to join the fight. Another explosion shook the ground beneath William's feet; he leapt over scattered rubble and glass in the street, shielding his face from the smoke. Everywhere he heard screaming and shouting and the peppery toyish pop-pop-pop of machine gun fire. He fled behind the nearest building and then ran up Church Street towards the quay, as fast as he could go, heedless of the crossfire, searching everything he saw and every person he passed, until he stopped in his tracks at the end of the next turn.

And there he was, squatting behind a stack of scrap wood at the end of a narrow alley. He was alone, cut off by debris from both the buildings and the street. At his feet lay his shotgun, an open box of shells, and two unlit Molotov cocktails. Adam crouched like a cat and peered through the slats, his shirt smudged with dirt, his face lined and squinting down the barrel of the pistol he held braced across his forearm. He was cornered.

William sprinted forward before he could think. A shot sounded in the distance and he whirled – nobody behind them. The wind shifted and the smoke blew away, dissipating in the streaky sunset; looking back he saw that Adam had turned and now sat with his back against the wall, reloading his pistol from the box at his feet.

William called his name.

Adam's head snapped up, and he aimed the pistol by instinct before he saw William standing across the lane. His eyes flickered, first in surprise, then in recognition. His face turned to stone beneath its layers of dirt. He did not lower the gun.

"Adam," William said again.

Adam's thumb moved to the hammer of his pistol.

"I can get you out of here, but you have to come with me right now." A fresh burst of gunshots broke out nearby, followed by more shouting – they were getting close. "Look, there's no time, I've got to get you out of here. Please, Adam, just listen, you have to tr—" But that was a sentence he could not finish.

Adam stared at him down the barrel of the gun trained on William's heart. A host of dark things moved in his eyes. His cheek, still yellowed by the mark of William's fist, twitched as he clenched his jaw. William turned both hands to show empty palms and spread his arms, exposing his chest. He waited.

The tide in Adam's face crested and ebbed. His eyes thawed from dark ice to the soft gray that haunted William's dreams. The pistol lowered until it hung at his side. He drew in a long breath, then another, and then he grabbed his shotgun and began to climb over the barricade.

William came forward to meet him, using the thickening smoke for cover. Adam stuck his pistol in his trousers and crawled over the rubble, keeping his head down, edging closer to where William stood. He jumped down with ease, and when his feet hit the ground he looked up at William and started to speak.

"Stop right there!"

William heard the rifle click before the shadow dropped across the street between them. One soldier, alone, his green uniform smudged with soot, his Crown-issue weapon poised carefully and wavering between Adam's head and William's.

"Step out this way, hands in the air. Slowly now."

William and Adam looked at each other from across the street. Adam stood in a patch of sunlight; his cap shaded his eyes as they met William's. William saw his own eyes reflected there – it was all he needed.

They drew their guns as one, side by side as if from an unspoken signal. The shots ripped through the alley, three bullets from three guns. The soldier caught both rounds in the chest and dropped before his rifle could slip from his hands. He landed on his back in a sprawl of green and red. William watched the dead man's blood spread across the cobblestones. So it goes, Da.

The shots would attract attention – they had to get out now. William shoved his pistol in his belt and turned to Adam. "C'mon, let's go." He held out a beckoning hand. "Adam, come on. It's alright, let's go."

Adam did not reply. He blinked at William and smiled – an odd, calm little smile. The wind blew through the alley, ruffling his hair beneath his cap as he looked down at his fluttering shirttail and the bright blood spreading across his belly. He looked up at William with that same tranquil, half-amused smile, and then pitched forward and fell face first onto the street.

27.

William was running again. In his dreams he ran through sunlight and silence, but now the streets all blurred together in an endless labyrinth of smoke and shadow and rising panic. He kept running, his progress slowed by the people rushing past and the weight of Adam's body sagging against him. They pushed through the crowds quickly filling Church Street – men and boys rushing to join both sides of the fight, policemen scrambling too late to their stations, women and girls trying to find their men. Someone knocked into Adam's shoulder and they both nearly went down – William grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back to his feet. Adam let out a strangled yelp; William's palm came up red. He closed it into a fist and struggled forward a few more steps.

"Gotta get out of here," Adam said.

"That's what we're doing, love, but I need you to help me, alright? Try to walk for me now."

"No— you." Adam's voice was strained; he clutched one arm against his abdomen. "You."

"Don't be daft," William snapped. "Get your arm round me. Come on now."

Adam shook his head. "Hang you if they catch you." He stopped abruptly and slipped from William's grasp to lean against the wall. "Too slow."

William compressed his voice into stern authority. "Bugger that. I didn't come all the way down here to leave your worthless arse in the street. Now save your breath for walking and get your arm round me again." Adam tried to protest as William pulled him from the wall but managed only a groan; William held him tighter and steered them back out into the flow. "Come on now – that's a lad. Just hold on to me."

Adam's grunts turned to gasps as they stumbled down the smoke-filled streets. He made an effort to walk on his own, and for a while they moved more quickly – but his breathing grew more labored with each passing minute, and his shirt clung wet and sticky to William's hands. William's own breath came harder and harder; his shoulders and back began to burn as Adam's feet grew heavier and the cobblestone stretched into eternity before them. He searched the horizon for a familiar face – someone, anyone who might help him get Adam away from this place before either of them were recognized. But they were moving away from the chaos, and the crowd had grown sparse, each passing shape the hurried blur of a stranger bent on his own pursuits. There was no one now to stop them, and there was no one now to help them.

Adam's head lolled against William's neck; his knees buckled and he would have fallen before William caught him in both arms. William pulled him out of the street and lowered him onto the nearest steps; he shook Adam once, called his name, but only a thin white crescent showed beneath black lashes. His fingers left frantic red smears on Adam's neck – a pulse beat faintly there. He drew a deep breath and put a shoulder into Adam's gut, tried to haul him over his shoulder like a sack of grain – his ribs, bruised by Kelly's fists, shrieked in pain and he sat down hard on the pavement with Adam slumped across his lap. He looked desperately down both ends of the alley. I'll never get him out of here, he thought. Too late, too late, William, too late again.

He had almost gathered the strength to try again when a grinding sound grew to a roar in the alley beside them – a moment later a black lorry spun around the corner and screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. Smoke blew away from silver letters smudged with dust and soot: Fisher's Fine Grocery and Baked Goods. The door flew open before the lorry stopped moving, and a white face appeared at the wheel.

"Come on!" Daniel cried. "Hurry!"

"He's shot," William said.

Daniel's eyes grew huge when he saw Adam sprawled across William's lap; he gasped something in a language William had never heard. His mouth fell open at the sight of Adam's crimson-soaked shirt, the red smears on William's hands and neck – and then his lips pressed into a grim line and his dark eyes flashed. "Get him in the back," he said. "And hold on."

"How did you—"

"Andy found me. He sent me to fetch you – they couldn't find you after. The fighting's mostly done but Collins' men are everywhere. We have to get out of here now!"

William's ribs screamed as he hoisted Adam into the back of the lorry. He barely had time to climb in beside him before Daniel floored the accelerator and the tires squealed as the lorry sped away. William pulled the tarp closed from the inside, and the sound and light dropped to a muted gloom.

William's teeth rattled as they sped over uneven Dublin stone. Only sailcloth lined the steel floor of the lorry's bed; there was nothing on which to prop Adam's sprawling body, nothing to cushion him from the jerking and swaying. William tucked a fold of sailcloth beneath Adam's head to stop it bouncing against the floor, and then he looked down at the blood-soaked shirt. One by one, he began to undo the buttons. He didn't want to look, but he forced his eyes to follow his fingers – he pulled the stained fabric apart, and his first thought was oh, God.

Blood soaked everything, reeking in the close air – but it was dark blood, old blood, only a slow trickle now oozing from the hole in Adam's right side. The wound had hit low, just above the hipbone, an angry aberration against what had formerly been smooth white skin. William got a hand beneath Adam's body and pushed him up as best he could, shutting out the awful sound he made, squinting in the dusty light until he found what he sought – a matching wound, this one more ragged, low on the same side of Adam's back. William's breath left him in a long sigh. A clean line through the outer muscle, not the disintegrating gut shot he had feared. The sigh turned to a laugh.

"I don't know what charm it is you live under, Adam Elliot, but I swear I've never seen its like."

He sat back and wiped his face on his shirt sleeve, willing his racing heart to calm. When he lifted his head again, Adam was looking at him.

"You're going to be alright," William said. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Adam did not seem to hear him. He blinked at William in dull curiosity, in and out of focus; then his eyes shot open and he tried to rise up from the sailcloth. "Glasgow, you can't—" The words broke up in a retching cough and William laid a hand on his chest.

"It's alright, Adam. Lie still now. Daniel's taking us to the docks. We're going to get you out of here."

The lorry hit a bump that turned Adam's cough into a strangled groan. William glanced around the empty space, then stripped off his shirt from the thermal he wore beneath and wedged it under Adam's side, cushioning the wound a little against the steel floor. There was nothing else he could do. He closed his eyes and breathed, forcing down the panic that clogged in his throat. After another breath, then a third, he began to feel more steady; he opened his eyes, and his heart lurched.

Adam's face had gone a waxy, ashen gray. His eyes were closed, his limbs slack and lolling; the only sign of life in his body came from his mouth, which moved with a small, constant whispering. William called his name sharply, but there was no response. He braced himself on his palms and leaned in close, bending over Adam's mouth until the barely discernible breaths became words.

"...of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti..."

William grabbed the halves of Adam's shirt and shook him violently. "Don't do that, don't you bloody do that, you're not going to die do you fucking hear me? Adam! Open your eyes!"

Mea culpa, Adam was whispering, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...

William slapped him across the face. Adam gasped and jerked, and his eyes snapped open – William looked into those eyes and finally allowed his voice to break.

"Don't you do that," he said. "Don't you leave me alone."

The lorry began to slow; the brakes whined and the gears ground as they rolled to a stuttering stop, and then everything went abruptly quiet. Beyond the wind pulling at the tarp fastenings, William could hear the cry of sea gulls. The driver's door slammed, the tarp rolled up, and Daniel appeared at the opening; Andy and David rushed up behind him, skidding to a stop as they got a look inside.

"Mother of God," David gasped, crossing himself.

Andy pushed past the horrified David and grabbed Adam's leg. "Bear a hand, Davie, let's get him inside."

William forced himself to let go so they could pull Adam from his grasp. He crawled out behind them and hit the ground with both feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs, and followed them as they carried Adam away down a gravel path.

They had parked in a small clearing that sloped down a green embankment; at the end of the grass the river spread out before them, still and undisturbed this far from the city. The dark water lapped against a solitary mooring and the hull of the barge waiting there. William looked toward the horizon – the sunset had burned itself out in smudged evening clouds, and the widening mouth of the sea sparkled beneath the rising moon.

Andy and David carried Adam inside, with William following as fast as his bruised ribs would let him, but Daniel hung back by the gangway. He peered after them anxiously and said to William, "Will he— will he be alright?"

"You saved his life," William said. "It was a clean shot. He'll be safe now."

"I need to get the lorry back before it's seen," Daniel's eyes filled with tears. "I wanted to tell him..."

"He knows." William gave him the closest thing he could manage to a smile. "Thank you, Daniel. Thank you for saving him."

"You saved him, William," Daniel said. He put a hand on William's shoulder. "Goodbye, my friend." He took one more look into the cabin before turning to hurry back down the dock, through the growing darkness and up the grass to where the lorry waited at the top of the embankment. The tires made crunching sounds in the gravel as the lorry drove away with its headlamps unlit.

The barge's cabin resembled a miniature boarding room; the living quarters were sparse but comfortable, as homelike as could be managed under the circumstances – it was, after all, Andy's home. Wood paneling lined the walls, and the metal floor was painted an inoffensive beige; a matched set of furniture occupied one corner, and a small cook stove burned quietly in another. The sheets had been stripped from the bolted bunk, and Adam lay there, propped up on folded blankets. He was white as the mattress beneath him, but seemed more lucid; David stood beside the bed, tearing a pillowcase into strips for bandages. The engines suddenly rumbled into life, shaking the floor beneath William's feet; a moment later Andy appeared in the hatch to the steering room. William took him by the elbow and led him to the corner furthest from the bed.

"Nothing touches that wound unless it's been boiled," he said. "Nothing. You've got whisky? Wash him with it before you bind him. He'll not be pleased, but hold him down if you have to. Nothing else touches him, you hear? Only boiled cloth and spirits until he's back on land."

"I can get you to Germany in two days," Andy said. "Hans makes the crossing every other month – as soon as he's mended you can go."

Quietly William said, "I'm staying here, Andy."

"But— but you can't! They'll hang you if they know what you've done!"

"They don't know, and they won't know. No one saw me. I have to go back, Andy. I have to be sure it's all mended." There was no time for discussion; he had to get all the words out while he still could. "Tea. Make strong tea with sugar, and give him as much as he'll drink. If he holds it down, try some broth, but boil it first. And I don't care how much he begs, no alcohol. Whisky for the outside, not the inside."

"Well that's a bit unfair."

They turned to see Adam watching them from his pillow, making a fair attempt at a grin.

"I thought I told you to lie still?"

David stepped aside to let William approach; he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, and instead he looked down at the bandages in his arms. William laid a hand on his shoulder and tried to smile. David nodded, smiling back as best he could, and left the room to take the bandages to the galley for boiling.

Andy had gone as well, closing the steering room hatch behind him to finish his preparations. They were alone. William sat on the edge of the bed and eased back the towel David had pressed to Adam's belly. Adam flinched, but the towel came away with no sodden sticky sound, and William mustered a smile.

"Clever, aren't you – this time next week you'll be drinking wine on the North Sea surrounded by a flock of frauleins."

"Reckoned I was due for a holiday. Never was one to do things halfway, aye?"

William laid the towel carefully back into place, and tucked it smooth and secure around Adam's belly. Abruptly Adam's hand moved to his, covering William's blood-stained fingers with his own. His voice wavered.

"Come with me."

"You know I can't."

Something in Adam's face crumbled, and his breath hitched. His eyes had gone bright and naked, and he looked very much like the lost and lonely boy he had always kept hidden from everyone. His voice drained to a whisper.

"William, I'm afraid."

William looked down at their hands, their intertwined fingers filthy with powder burns and caked with Adam's blood. He fought to keep his voice even.

"You were strong for your brother," he said. "Now you have to be strong for me."

Tears spilled from Adam's eyes and ran down the dirt on his cheeks. "But you came back."

"I came back to get you out – you're getting out, love. You'll get a new start, a new life, away from all this. This is your chance at freedom, and I can't—" His chest constricted painfully; Adam's face swam before his eyes. "If I could— I should never have—" His voice broke and he choked out hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Adam, I'm so, so sorry—"

Their kiss cut off his words. William closed his eyes, committing to memory the sound of Adam's breath, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin, recording forever every detail of this silent goodbye. For a long time neither of them spoke; their foreheads rested together, breathing each other's air for one moment longer, unwilling to let go.

"You broke your loyalty for me," Adam whispered.

"I found my loyalty because of you," William said. "I will never forget that."

He brushed his lips across Adam's, a whisper both made but neither heard; and with the next breath he stood up and walked out of the cabin as fast as he could.

A damp night had fallen outside, quiet except for the hum of the boat's engines. A mist as thick as drizzle scoured the air, stinging William's face, clinging to his wet eyelashes. On the path ahead of him, half ground into the gravel, something lay glittering in a puddle of water. William stooped to pick it up, wiped off the mud with his thumb. It was a rosary – the one they had admired in the market on that sunny afternoon, its green and white beads scratched and stained with dried blood. The carved knot on the cross had cracked, rough beneath his thumb, chipped from its fall from the pocket of Adam's trousers. William held the beads in his fingers, watching raindrops pearl on the glassy surface. He put the rosary in his pocket and walked up the hill toward the road, into the darkness as the rain grew harder and colder.

"Goodbye," he said.

28.

October 12, 1922

"Come on, Young. First round's on me."

"Maybe tomorrow, mate. I'm knackered."

The locker swung closed with a rusty squeak. "Aw, come on, man, one pint's not gonna kill you."

"No, but I might kill you if you don't give us a break."

"Gonna pull your government chib on me?"

William grinned. He slipped on his shirt and quickly did up the buttons. "Look, Stewart, I don't know about you but I just worked a ten-hour shift. The only thing I'm going to do right now is go home and sleep. Is that alright with you?"

Stewart shook his head. "Christ, Young, you're a fuckin' stodger these days. I remember when you used to drink the dockies under the table, tenner or no – last man standing."

"Aye, and I remember when you boaked a pint of lager on Mary Ferguson's shoes." The wooden bench creaked as William sat down. He put a foot on the wall and began to lace up his boot. "I'll go tomorrow, alright?"

They were alone in the locker room; almost an hour had passed since shift change; William was always among the last to shut down his belt, and by the time they got to the lockers nearly everyone had gone. That was just fine with William; he preferred to shower alone. Fewer questions that way. He set about tying his other boot as Stewart focused on his comb and the cracked mirror hanging from his locker door.

Frank walked in from the lav, wiping shaving cream from his jaw. He bumped Stewart with his elbow. "You get anywhere?"

"Nah." Stewart tucked his comb in his back pocket. "We're on our own, Frankie, you and me."

Frank was checking himself out in the mirror; he licked a forefinger and ran it down one eyebrow. "Nah, you're on your own, mate. I've a prior engagement at the establishment in question."

Stewart looked ill. "Good God, Young, you can't leave me on my own to watch Frankie chat up that spotty Connor hen again."

William chuckled. He stood up and pulled his jacket from his locker, closing the door with his elbow. A plain wooden tag swung from the grate: W Young. He shrugged into the coat, still grinning. "I'll walk you down pub," he said, "but then I'm afraid you're on solo hen duty."

It was overcast when they emerged onto Westerhill; the steam from the stacks hung in a thick layer between the buildings and what remained of the sunlight. William shivered and buttoned up his jacket – after being behind the machines all day the October wind bore extra teeth. Behind him, Frank and Stewart lit up smokes and shared a laugh; the whine of the belts was still too loud in William's ears to hear what they said.

Autumn felt like winter already; the sun, never a close friend of Glasgow, showed up less and less frequently between bouts of rain that mixed with the ashes and soot, coating the buildings with gray streaks and the streets with sticky mud. The industrial block smelled of burnt things and dirt, mildew and rust; but behind them William could smell the greasy warmth of the chip shop on the corner, the new smoke of a thousand dinnertime stoves. The sunset, like the city, refused to be smothered; its stubborn light lit the bricks to pale yellow and gold, and the newsboys hawked the evening papers as the pavements filled with homebound workers and Friday night pub-crawlers.

Frankie paused at a newsstand; Stewart and William stepped over behind him and waited, shielding themselves behind the awning while Frank haggled over the price of Red Indians. Stewart sucked on his smoke and huddled inside his coat, watching a group of girls coming down the steps of the shirt factory. William read the headlines spread out along the stand. They lay in tidy piles held down by brickbat paperweights – the Herald, the Scotsman, the Socialist News, the Christian Gazette, the London Telegraph, News of the World, and, at the far end, the Dublin Times.

VETERAN'S COMMITTEE PRESSES FOR BENEFIT LEGISLATION, read the headline. Below that, a smaller story: Autumn Festival Planned for Saturday. Football scores and theater schedules, crime reports and almanac entries. Tiny print halfway down the sidebar: Continued Fighting in Cork. Four Killed By Roadside Bomb. The pages rustled in the wind as he scanned the columns of typeset.

"Alright then, Young?" Frankie appeared at his elbow, swigging from a bottle of ginger. "Gonna stand there reading the papers all night?"

"He would if we let him." Stewart peered over William's shoulder and blew smoke across the page. "You looking for another mystery, Inspector?"

"Piss off," William said.

"Eh?" said Frankie. "What's that then?"

"Oh, didn't you know? Dear William here used to have a secret job he couldn't tell no one about. Some government thing – used to pop off for weeks at a time. Very shady."

"Aye?" Frankie took another drink and wiped the fizz from his lip. "You don't look much like a spy to me, man. I saw them in the cinema pictures – big black mustaches. Wee bit taller."

Stewart shared his chuckle. "On His Majesty's Service, eh Young?"

William gave them a two-fingered salute.

"Aye, but we reckon he must've got himself sacked – now all he ever does is read the papers and stay at home with his sister," said Stewart. "Tragic, mate. Pure tragic." He looked down at the Times and flicked his cigarette butt onto the street. "Why you give a shite about a bunch of scuffling Tarriers is beyond me."

"We ready to go or what?" William plucked the bottle from Frankie's hand and took a swallow. He passed it back as they walked down the crowded stretch of Westerhill, away from the factories and toward the residential lanes. Stewart lit up another cigarette.

William didn't buy the papers anymore. He had done, at first, since the day he stepped off the boat in Oban – read them, binned them, stored them in his head. He watched it all come apart, unfolding each day in cold black print: the Records Building going up in June, taking a thousand years of Ireland with it; Collins mustering the tanks and clearing out the streets, pushing the fighting out of Dublin to country roads and villages. Death on both sides – Brugha in July, Collins in August; nameless bodies in rural ditches, grainy shapes on white newsprint. No familiar faces ever stood out among them.

A small sidebar in August, just after Collins' death: Lord Director Christopher to Resign, "Post Become Too Dangerous for Crown Involvement". William had read the line three times and then laughed until he coughed himself hoarse. After that, he stopped reading the execution lists. He scanned the headlines now only from some instinct too ingrained to let go – but the struggle he had known was long since over. The fight for freedom had mutated into a stagnant blood feud.

He had come home to his Glasgow, to his family, to his room and his bed and an envelope lying on his pillow. Inside it was his letter of resignation, refolded along his careful lines; behind that, a severance draft and a sheet of letterhead stamped NOTICE OF DISHONOURABLE TERMINATION. He had thrown both letters in the kitchen stove and watched them curl in the flames; the money he had put into an envelope and posted the next day, handwritten in his small print: Miss Mary Sullivan, Wicklow Street, Dublin.

Two weeks later a postcard had slipped through his door bearing a Dublin postmark. It was a cartoon advertisement, a man and a woman carrying towering stacks of pint glasses through a swinging door. Guinness Makes Us Strong. Glued to the back was a small American flag. The card lay now in a cigar box in the back of his wardrobe, tucked beneath a collection of remnants: matchbooks and cigarette cards, keys and coins and bits of string, a packet of chewing gum and a rosary made of green and white beads.

The pub was just around the corner from the trolley stop on Pitmedden Street. Its windows glowed with welcoming light; warm air curled out each time the door swung open and spilled the sound of glass and laughter out into the growing dusk. They stood on the steps while Stewart finished his cigarette.

"You sure you won't join us?"

"Nah," said William. "Maybe tomorrow."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Stewart slapped him on the back. "See you Monday. I liked you better when you were a spy."

"I was never a spy," William said. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched against the cold. "I'll see you Monday."

Stewart smiled. "Alright, mate." The bells chimed as he and Frank stepped over the threshold. "You get yourself back to your home."

The watery sun finally sank as William walked down the long stretch of Westerhill. The wind picked up, sweeping away the last traces of autumn and scattering leaves and paper across the empty street; William hunched inside his jacket and headed toward the residential blocks, alone in the dreary twilight.

"Home," he said, and dead leaves rattled around his feet.

29.

October 29, 1922

"Tea, William?"

"Aye."

Steam rose from the china pot as his sister filled his cup. William left it to cool on its saucer and reached for the plate of scones in the center of the table; he plucked one off the top and took an enormous bite. "Mm. These are the best this week, Meg."

Meg smirked at him. "Flattery doesn't get you a second helping, love. But don't stop trying." She filled her own cup and set the pot aside, flicking William's crumbs off the tablecloth.

The light growing in the kitchen window bore the sharp edges of a winter sunrise, but it was softened to a cozy glow on whitewashed walls. The stove crackled with breakfast embers; Meg stirred her tea and moved the milk bottle away from the Sunday paper William had spread across the table. William tapped his pencil against his front teeth, rolling the tiny chew-marks against his lower lip.

"There's a good one," Meg said. "One bedroom flat in Ruchazie, window in every room. Rent's good, too."

William frowned. "Ruchazie? That's a bit of a walk, isn't it? Isn't there something closer?"

Meg sighed. "You're not compelled to live on our back doorstep, William. We can manage just fine." She ignored the noise he made and sipped her tea. "Can't we, girls?"

His nieces looked up from their dolls and nodded dutifully, grinning when William turned around. "Traitors," he said, and they giggled.

He reached for the jar of marmalade. "You won't get rid of me that easy. I'm too tight to pay train fare, and you know it. Anyway, you know I don't want to— ah, Christ, fucking—" The jam spoon clattered to the china and he clamped his mouth shut, cradling his right hand to his chest.

Meg put down her cup. "Is it your finger, love?"

"Aye. Bloody machines."

She drew his hand forward and examined the forefinger – stiff and swollen with a vicious bruise, the skin split from the second knuckle to the cracked black nail. William hissed between his teeth as Meg gingerly bent the injured joint; he snatched the hand from her grasp and stuck the knuckle in his mouth until the throbbing subsided.

He could feel her eyes on him as he picked up the spoon; he scowled and scooped up a glob of marmalade. A jammed finger was nothing to fuss about; he had certainly been hurt worse in his day. The marmalade plopped onto his scone in an unwieldy mountain and he stabbed the spoon back in the jar before returning to his research. He read down the newspaper page again – this week's offerings were not much of an improvement from the week before. It looked like it might be better to wait until after the new year after all. He circled a note on the third row: two rooms with lav above the baker's shop – decent rent, and not all the way out in Ruchazie either. And a baker's shop, no less; maybe he could finagle in a discount.

"Why are you doing this?"

He looked up from the paper. "It's the easiest way to find a flat."

She had both hands wrapped around her teacup to warm them. "You know that's not what I mean."

William's brow knit; the question made no sense. He gave her a shrug and went back to his notes, tracing his pencil down the lines, trying to find his place in the columns.

"Mum and Da are gone, William."

The pencil froze in his fingers.

Meg set her cup down and crossed her arms on the table, her dark hair spilling down her arms. "I'm not a little girl anymore," she said. "I haven't been one for quite some time. I'm a Young too, you know – I don't need a minder any more than you do. I've been taking care of myself since the day I whipped the Cumberland brothers for throwing mud on my new school dress."

"That wasn't fair," William said. "I could've had them. They double-teamed me."

They grinned together; in the light from the window he saw tiny lines around her eyes. How long had those been there?

"You've done your part by us well, brother. God knows you've been a better father to the girls then their real one ever was." She paused. "Mum and Da would be proud of you."

"Meg—" William's voice quavered and he closed his mouth.

"But they're gone now, love. And you're here. You've buried yourself in their grave all your life, bound up in a service you were never meant to carry. One day you're going to have to stop living in all of our shadows and step into your own life. You can't go on like this forever – it's too much for either of us to bear." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I was proud to be your home, but I will not be your excuse."

William swallowed over a painful lump in his throat.

"You're better than this," Meg said. "This isn't the life you were meant to live."

Quietly he said, "I don't know anything else."

"I don't think that's true. I've known that since you came back from Dublin. All these years, every place you went and every name you used, you were searching and running and fighting all at once. But you've stopped now. Whatever it was you were looking for, in Dublin you found it. And you let it go."

The words caught him completely unprepared. Meg held his gaze, love and strength and sorrow in her eyes. She looked more like their mother than he had ever seen her.

"I had to do my duty," he whispered.

She slipped her hands over his, stroking his fists until they softened under her touch, careful of his injured finger. Her eyes filled with tears, and her chin quivered beneath her smile, but her voice did not break.

"You've done them proud, William. You've done me proud. Your only duty now is to yourself. It's not the job you wanted, I know, but it's the only job left."

William's heart pounded. Things were shaking inside him that he could not identify, all his defenses abruptly dismantled without warning by the most unlikely of saboteurs. He looked at his nieces, playing in the corner – he thought of how much of their lives he had missed, and how much more there would be to miss in the future. Their faces began to blur in his vision. William's fingers trembled in his sister's grasp. He looked into her eyes, his one constant source for all these years.

"What do I do, Meg?"

She squeezed his hands until the shaking stopped. "You know, William. You've always known."

Something sweet and sad flitted across her eyes; and then she got up from the table and walked over to the kitchen sink beneath the window. Stretching to her tiptoes to reach past the jars and bottles, she plucked a small tea tin from behind the last row. She paused to wipe the dust off with her apron, then walked back to the table and set the tin in front of William's plate. He pried the lid off, minding his finger, and the tin fell over with a jingling sound. Three ten-pound notes tumbled onto the cloth, smudged with dust and tea; inside were more, many more, rolled into bundles and labeled with bits of paper and steady feminine script. York, spring '15. Aberdeen, June '16. Dunbarton, Christmas '17. Sheffield. Paisley. Bristol. Perth. Newcastle.

William heard a giggle at his elbow; two freckled faces peeked over the edge of the tabletop. His eldest niece reached out a finger and poked at one of the coins; the youngest grinned at him with a marmalade-smeared mouth. William wound an auburn curl around his bruised finger, soft and shining in the brightening sunlight beyond the white lace curtain. He looked at his sister and smiled.

"I love you, Meg."

She touched his face, smoothing out the lines in his brow.

"I know, William," she said. "I've always known."

30.

November 24, 1922

The wind was a serrated squall as it funneled down the trench of the busy street. The snow whipped like buckshot, swirling up from the salted sidewalks and down from the swift, roiling sky. William clutched his coat around his throat and bent his shoulders against each gust. He squinted down at the wrinkled paper in his free hand; the hand-drawn map had been smudged into obscurity by splattered drops. He looked up and tried to blink the snow from his eyes; the street signs were on poles instead of the sides of the buildings, and it was skewing his sense of direction. He'd almost been hit twice this morning by careening automobiles, surrounded by an urban miasma of blaring horns, clanging streetcar bells, and hissing steam vents, all dampened by the dull roar of a winter storm.

The address could no longer be read on the battered paper, but William had memorized the numbers long ago. The wind picked up and nearly snatched the sheet from his hand; he moved to catch it, and his gaze landed on the sign swinging from a nearby pole, glistening with ice and winter glare. Elliot's Dry Goods and Grocer.

William's teeth chattered as he stood beneath the wind-whipped awning, staring at the plate glass windows. A braided mat lay in front of the door, stitched in Celtic lettering: Welcome. William closed his hands into fists; the map crumpled into a wet ball, and he shoved it into his coat pocket. He drew in a breath, the air stinging cold in his nostrils, and turned the brass doorknob.

A flurry of snowflakes followed him inside; the door closed behind him, and the wind dropped to a background murmur. William stood on the rug and wiped off his feet, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The shop was small and well-stocked, with whitewashed walls and crowded shelves and rows of bolted cloth above the cracker barrels; a cast iron stove crackled with pleasant warmth near a crate filled with rag dolls, and on the back wall hung a notice board covered with squares of colored paper. Countrymen! Help the War Orphans of Ireland. Donate to Boston Catholic Charities Here.

Behind the counter stood a tall young man around William's age, in a white shopkeeper's shirt and apron, counting out a stack of receipts. He looked up when the doorbells chimed and gave a courteous smile when he saw William standing on the front rug.

"Good day, sir, can I help? Bit nippy outside, isn't it?"

His face looked a little older than it should have; the nose crooked from an ancient break, the left eyebrow split by a thick white scar, but his blue eyes were bright and lively, and his smile curled with a very familiar lopsided amiability. Even if William had not seen the photograph, there could have been no mistaking him. The young man blinked at him in silence, still smiling politely, until William finally found his voice.

"You must be Michael."

The blue eyes widened in surprise, but they narrowed almost immediately to mask the reaction. He was definitely an Elliot. He straightened from his receipts and looked William over at length, appraising him from head to toe; and then he crossed his arms and his smile disappeared.

"And you must be William."

His tone was as unreadable as his expression – his face had smoothed over with a calm, careful blankness that sparked unwelcome memory.

"I am," William said simply.

He stood as lightly as he could, his face and posture calm, but his muscles were tensed for a thousand possible reactions. He said nothing else, because there was nothing else to say. They stood there in silence, staring at each other on either side of the counter; and then Michael jerked his head toward the doorway in the far corner.

"He's in the back. "

The storage room had no door, curtained off instead by an Irish flag tacked above the frame. William stared at it, listening to the snow melting on his shoes and his hair dripping onto his collar. His face smarted in the warmth from the stove. His fists clenched tighter inside his coat pockets; he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the back of the room.

"Mr. Young."

Michael had picked up a stacks of receipts; he held it in both hands like a deck of cards, tapping down the edges with his thumb. He looked up at William from beneath his scarred brow.

"Thank you for what you did for my family."

His smile returned, subtle but sincere. William returned it as best he could, and nodded.

The flag made a little swishing sound when William pushed it aside. The storeroom was long and narrow, bright with electric light illuminating shelves filled with boxes, tins, jars, and bottles. At the far end of the room, a figure stood on a rickety stepladder, organizing stock on the top row. His back was to the door, his white sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his apron strings tied low on his hips; his body was thin, far too thin, and he moved with careful grace as he rearranged glass jars of strawberry preserves.

"That you, Mikey? Who was at the door, then?"

William had lived this moment in his mind more times than he could count: on his back in his bed at Meg's, in the swaying berth of his cabin, on the foreign maze of icy Boston streets. He had a thousand speeches ready and waiting, a catalogue of words all mapped out in his head – he stood in the doorway and watched Adam move jars around on the shelf, and he could remember now not a single one of them.

"Mikey?"

"No," William said. "It's not Michael."

Adam's hand froze on the shelf. He gripped the edge as the ladder wobbled, and the muscles in his shoulders went taut beneath his shirt. For a long moment, he did not move. Then the ladder creaked in protest as he slowly climbed down one step, then another; one hand went to his side as he flinched in brief pain, and William's mouth pressed into a tight line. He fought his racing heart and waited, saying nothing, until Adam descended the last step and turned around to face him.

His face was thinner, the lines around his eyes a little more visible. Weight loss had seeped some of the boyish curve from his cheeks; pain and travel had left shadows beneath his eyes. His brown tweed cap sat crooked at a careless angle, but the hair beneath it was combed in the American fashion. He held himself carefully, steadying himself with one hand against the ladder – but his color was strong and his back was straight, and his gray eyes shone clear in the electric light. He was more beautiful than William had ever seen him.

"Glasgow," he said.

William withdrew his right hand from inside his coat pocket. The object he had been clutching all this time made a clacking sound as it settled across his palm. The beads draped around his fingers, green and white still stained with brown and red; the chipped cross felt heavy in the center of William's palm as he held it at arm's length between them.

"You dropped this."

Adam stared at the rosary in William's hand. He hitched a little breath and let it out, and his throat worked once as he swallowed. William refused to let his fingers tremble, giving in to neither the desire to run away nor the desire to run forward as Adam slowly crossed the distance between them. He was still looking at the rosary; he reached out his left hand until his fingertips brushed the fractured beads. His thumb slid across the rusty stain on the center knot. William's heart pounded in his chest; when Adam looked at him, he drew in a breath and delivered his only offering.

"It's a bit worn in parts – but it's yours, if you want it."

Fear he knew well, and pain better still – but in all his days William could not recall a single moment in time that bore quite so keen a terror as standing in that little storeroom, Adam's hand resting on his, listening to the queasy thudding of his own heart. He could hear the wind whistling outside, and wondered if he would slip on the ice as he ran down the front step – and then Adam's arms were around him, and his face was buried in the scarred skin of William's neck, and the rosary beads tapped against William's back as they dangled from Adam's clutching fingers. William held him as fiercely as he could without pressing his wounded side. He could not breathe, something soft and swelling filling his lungs, pushing out the ache and weariness from his body. It took him a moment to give it the name 'hope'.

They stood forehead to forehead, both mindful of the thin curtain shielding the door. Adam's hands settled on William's waist, long fingers curling to pull him closer; William smiled into bright gray eyes, close and real and sparkling back at him.

"So it is true a man can make his fortune in this town? I'm afraid I'm between occupations at the moment."

Adam looked up at him, a strand of hair slipping from beneath his cap as he grinned.

It's a land of opportunity," he said.

##

Author's Note

The events of Allegiance begin with the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin that led to the Irish War of Independence. In December 1921 the war ended with the Anglo-Irish Treaty, which included a stipulation that Irish Free State officials must take an Oath of Allegiance including fidelity to the British Crown. The Treaty caused a sharp division between those who tolerated the Free State and those who demanded a Republic. When Republican forces took over the Dublin Four Courts in April 1922, the Crown threatened to clear them out if the Free State Army did not; in June the Republicans were driven out by Free State forces, and the Irish Civil War began.

The MI5 was first created in 1909 under the name Secret Service Bureau. (I used MI5 for simplicity.) One of its purposes was to investigate disturbances at home: labor strikes, anarchists, communism, anything considered dangerous to public order. Ordinary men were sometimes recruited to turn informer within these groups; in the story this is what happened to William, who saw it as his chance to use the system to prevent the kind of violence he himself had experienced.

I gave Adam the surname Elliot because my grandmother was an Elliot – her father's parents came over during the Famine. Like so many Americans with an Irish branch on the family tree, she clung fiercely to that part of her heritage, even though she was born in Texas and a card-carrying member of the Daughters of the Confederacy. Whenever she got angry she would say, "Now I've got my Elliot up"; whenever one of her granddaughters got sassy she would say, "That's your Elliot coming out." I thought if anyone was the kind of Elliot my Nanny described, Adam was.

I began Allegiance for NaNoWriMo 2004 and finished it in 2005, about a year before I started serious work on The Soldier of Raetia. If you've read SoR, you most likely noticed a lot of similarities between the two. Up until then I had only written short stories; I think finishing Allegiance gave me the confidence to go on with SoR, in content, style, form, plot, all kinds of ways. For that – and for many other reasons – it will always be dear to me

Playlist

U2 – Stranger in a Strange Land

Flogging Molly – The Kilburn High Road

The Pogues – Thousands are Sailing

Siouxsie & the Banshees – Cities in Dust

Flogging Molly – Rare Ould Times

Days of the New – Weapon and the Wound

Peter Murphy – Cuts You Up

Elvis Costello – How Much I Lied

Paul Schwartz – Veni Creator Spiritus

Enya – Storms in Africa

U2 – Bad

Depeche Mode – Judas

Snow Patrol – Run

Marillion – Made Again

The Cranberries – Dreams

The Pogues – Love You till the End

Contact

web: http://heatherdomin.com

blog: http://teacake421.livejournal.com
