Taigdh appeared by her side, but she barely turned to look at him.
“Yes,” she replied. The word felt like a lie before she even said it.
“We’re all heading back to The Bear now,” he said. “Sorcha and Darragh are coming too, but if you want to stay here instead, we understand.”
Morrígan nodded. As she did, a mound of dirt upon her mother’s grave quivered, just slightly.
“Did you see that?” said Morrígan.
“No?” he said, taking a step closer. “What was it?”
“I saw something move. Just now, in the grave.”
“What?”
“There look! It’s happening again!”
Morrígan pointed a quivering hand down at the grave. There, several pebbles and stones trickled down the mound, as if the ground beneath them was shifting.
“It’s just the soil settling,” said Taigdh, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”
“How can you be sure?” Morrígan’s voice rose. Taigdh balked in response. Behind him, Darragh and Sorcha, the dressmaker’s daughter, caught Morrígan’s eye.
“What’s the matter, Morrígan?” asked Sorcha. She approached and casually slipped her fingers inside Taigdh’s. Morrígan pretended to ignore that.
“The grave, the soil, it’s moving. Look!”
The three looked at the grave; none were polite enough to object. After a moment of waiting, another tiny shift in the soil caused more grains to come loose.
“There!” cried Morrígan. “Do you see?”
Sorcha sighed. “It’s nothing, Morrígan. It’s probably the wind, or—”
“It’s not the wind. It’s like something’s moving down there, something—”
Morrígan gasped as the realisation came to her. “What if she’s alive?”
Silence. On hearing those words, Taigdh, Darragh, and Sorcha all stood still, averting their eyes from hers.
“Morry,” said Taigdh. “You know that’s not possible.”
“I don’t know!” she snapped. “And you don’t either!”
Sorcha took a slow step forwards, then raised a gentle hand,
“Morrígan,” she said, lips pursed in caution. “Back when your uncle told me that my father died, I didn’t believe him at first. Even when I saw Dad lying dead in the clinic, I still thought he was alive. Yarlaith explained what would happen next, the measures he would take to ensure nobody else in Roseán would contract the pox that killed him, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care because my father was already dead.”
And I don’t care about your life story.
“What I’m saying, Morrígan, is that you’ve been through a lot. Sometimes your mind will lie to you. Sometimes you’ll start thinking thoughts that don’t make sense, or thoughts that’ll do nothing but bring harm to yourself and those around you. These next few days will be the hardest, but we’ll be there for you.”
“That’s right,” Darragh chimed in. “We’ll be here, no matter what.”
“You can talk to us about anything,” said Taigdh. “Even if you don’t think it’s important, even if you don’t think anyone else cares, you can always talk to us.”
“Thank you,” said Morrígan, forcing a smile. “I just want to be alone, though, for a little while longer.”
They bade her farewell, and Morrígan was left staring at the grave.
But I know what I saw.
The remaining villagers each shared their condolences as they left. Morrígan thanked Mr. Cathain and his son for helping with the funeral, and Mrs. Mhurichú for the beadhbh cloak; the dressmaker seemed happy to see Morrígan enjoying her gift. Ciarán from the mill, Peadair from the inn, and Fearghal the butcher all bestowed their sympathy, and she thanked them graciously. The Reardon brothers from the forge each shook her hand, leaving her fingers with a dull ache.
Is this it? Am I supposed to go back to a normal life now?
She paced slowly after the villagers, unconcerned of where they were headed. Maybe they’d return to The Bear for another night of festivities. Or perhaps Fionn the Pyromancer had made a full recovery and was ready to tell her why he and his companions chose that damned morning to lead a mountain troll to Roseán.
Either way, it was difficult to care what happened next. All she wanted to do was fall into her mother’s arms again and cry. To hear the sound of her voice. To feel the warmth of her embrace.
Peadair walked slightly ahead, deep in hushed conversation with Ciarán and Fearghal. Morrígan knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help but listen.
“—the railway. That’s why they did him in. Those tracks under the ground were supposed to unite Penance and Cruachan. Man and Simian, brought together with something even tighter than the Iron Concordant.”
The butcher shook his head vigorously. Fearghal was a loud man, almost incapable of whispering. His voice grabbed the attention of more than those who were listening.
“Bah, it doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. Why would the Silverback assassinate one of his own?”
“Because it was Santos,” insisted Ciarán. “His trains were getting in the way of the separatist movement.”
