Chapter 5

The next day dawned clear and cold with a blanket of white frost covering the earth in a veil of diamonds and stars. Moira had awoken earlier than usual, with her nose an icicle and her toes numb despite being buried deep within the folds of her duvet.

Although February was technically spring in Ireland, northwest Donegal was holding on to the last of winter’s chill with a firm grip. She dressed quickly to minimize her exposure to the cold and damp.

Once again, as though summoned by Moira’s thoughts alone, Bríd appeared at the door with a jug of steaming water. “’Tis far tew cold a morning to be washin’ wit’out a bit o’ steam,” she stated with a dramatic shiver.

A thousand needles bore into Moira’s fingers as she plunged them into the hot water. The shock gave way to sheer bliss as the warmth radiated up her chilled hands. Relishing every last ounce of heat, she lifted cupped handfuls to splash her face, wishing she could fit her entire body into the small basin of steaming water.

She dried her hands and face quickly, and deftly assembled her hair into a long plait that she wrapped around the crown of her head. Stubborn black ringlets fell around the nape of her neck and her temples.

“Ah, well.” She sighed at her reflection in the murky mirror. “Perfection belongs to the Lord alone, right?” She gave herself a curt nod in agreement and headed down the stairs.

After another hearty breakfast, Moira prepared to explore the village a bit more and visit the schoolhouse for the first time. Feeling compelled to let her hosts know her plans for the day this time, she stopped at the doorway. “Thank you again for breakfast. It was delicious. I’m heading out to see the town today, hoping to get into the schoolhouse and set a few things up before next week.”

“Will ya be back for lunch, then?” Bríd asked.

“Yes, that’ll be lovely.”

Moira stepped outside and took a deep breath. There was a freshness in the air she had never felt in Boston. It rejuvenated her spirit. It was like inhaling pure life with every breath.

Just past the entrance to the guesthouse property, the road curved and headed east. Isolated bungalows stood scattered along the winding dirt road. Fields of bog, bordered with rustic rock walls, lay like a patchwork quilt between barns, sheds, and whitewashed homes that gleamed in the morning sun.

She sensed something familiar about this place. Although she had never been here before, she could almost describe what was around each corner before she got there. Though unexpected, she welcomed the perception of familiarity.

Even with peace washing over her, the muttered statement Bríd had made about the schoolchildren the first night rolled like a stone deep in the pit of her stomach.

The day-to-day language of the village was Gaelic. Bríd had said so herself. Why, then, would they hire a young, English-speaking American teacher? Surely there were more experienced, more qualified, Irish teachers.

Moira came to a road that ran perpendicular to her current path. About thirty yards down stood a single-story building with pebble-smacked walls and a tin roof. As she got closer, it reminded Moira of a flower box topped with a slanted lid.

Small windows lined the long walls. Soggy, hand-drawn pictures, paper cutouts, and other educational paraphernalia littered them, alerting the community of the children’s activities. That must be the schoolhouse. Moira smiled with quiet satisfaction. She had only finished her teacher training in October and had not yet been given a chance to put her skills to work. Pushing her doubts aside, she felt anticipation overwhelm her, and she ran, childlike, to the door, pushing it open.

Inside, the humble building smelled of pencil lead, damp paper, and glue. She sighed.

The pupils’ desks sat in tidy rows, each with a pencil atop, waiting for its owner. Moira strolled beside the back wall and ran her fingers along the large bookshelf that stood there. The shelves bowed with the weight of the collection of literary works. A large blackboard hung on the front wall. The teacher’s desk sat kitty-corner from it, allowing her to see all her pupils in one sweeping glance.

Moira was so lost in thought, all else around her faded away. But a metallic click told her she was not alone.