Chapter 43

Billowy clouds decorated a cornflower sky while myriad questions swirled in Moira’s mind. Ignoring the slight disquiet gnawing at her gut, she wondered anew at what surprise Declan might have in store. It delighted her that he would go to any such lengths. She also noted that Sean had orchestrated no such gesture, grand or small.

Yes, Sean had happened to be there for some of the more harrowing experiences Moira had been through in Ballymann, but that was more by sheer happenstance than his own design. Besides, it would be rude of her not to at least see what Declan’s surprise was.

Footfalls on the path behind her broke through Moira’s thoughts. Smiling to herself, she turned on her heel. “You couldn’t wait until tomorr—” But no one was there. She scanned the horizon, examining each rock and tree but found nothing but God’s nature. Sweat prickled her palms and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat. Though she was nearly at her destination, the ailing boy’s hovel would offer little protection from anyone who might be about with sinister intentions. Her pace quickened, and she surprised herself with the speed at which she hopped the wall.

Blood rushed in her ears, every leaf rustling in the breeze. Taunting her. Even her own footsteps haunted her, tricking her senses into believing a predator was just within reach. Bothering not with the formality of knocking, she thrust the lean-to door open and ducked inside.

Her breath fighting to escape her lungs, she hunched behind the door and watched through the cracks in its bark for any sign of her follower. When no one appeared after a moment or two, the pounding in her ears subsided and her breathing slowed. She exhaled a sigh of relief and chided her imagination. Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she turned to tend to her patient.

A shriek escaped her lips, and she fell back against the wall. There sat Áedach, awake, fully alert, and leaning up against the corner.

The pallor of his skin and labored breaths told her he was not yet well but improving.

“Áedach.” Moira’s parched tongue could barely eke out his name. She swallowed hard and plastered a smile on her face. “It’s good to see you awake—you gave us quite the fright, you know?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but instead of words a splitting cough broke the silence between them. Moira rushed to his side and offered him a sip of tea from her flask. Between rasps, he eyed the flask warily before searching her face.

“It’s only tea, I assure you.” She offered it again.

Taking the container, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. When it smelled innocent enough, he shrugged and braved a small sip. In a flash he upended the beaker and chugged heartily.

Moira grabbed his hands, lowering them to his chest. “Easy, lad, easy. You mustn’t drink too much too quickly. I know you’re parched, but small sips every few minutes is best or your stomach will distend.”

He glowered at her but obeyed, raising the drink to his lips again, this time taking just a nip. Moments passed without another word spoken.

Moira searched her mind for what to say. Did he know why she was here? Did he remember how she’d left him for so long the first night she’d found him here? Did he mean to harm her?

“How are you feeling?” she asked at last.

He grunted. “Like I fell off the top o’ Mount Errigal.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Stirring the fire back to life, she sighed deeply. “You were quite ill, Áedach. We thought we were going to lose you.”

“‘We?” His lip curled up at the corner.

She busied herself looking through her basket of goods, trying to shake the memory of Áedach’s body pressed up against hers when he threatened her at the schoolhouse. “Mrs. Sweeny and I have been treating you. Though I have to say, we didn’t hold out much hope for you at first.”

“Auld Lady Sweeny, eh?” He shook his head in surprise and attempted a sarcastic chuckle, but it sent another ripple of hacking coughs through his body, and he had to take another swig of tea to settle it once again.

“You’ve been unconscious for over a week, lad. You need to take things slowly and rest as much as you can.”

“A week!” He mashed his eyes with the heel of each hand, as though that would cause him to wake up in a different reality. “I’d o’ never dreamed I’d be nursed back to health by the likes o’ ye.” He shook his head again and raked a hand through his matted hair.

“Well, I never dreamed I’d be nursing the likes of you back to health either.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

Moira rolled her lips between her teeth while she visually inspected her patient. Clearly his chest still ailed him greatly and needed continued treatment with the poultices. She had no way, however, of knowing if his fever had broken without a proper examination. Caring for the boy when he was unconscious and on the brink of death was one thing. Touching him and being in such close quarters while he was awake was quite another. Though clearly in a weakened state, he was still Áedach, and as far as Moira knew he still held the same ill will toward her as he had a fortnight ago.

The Lord had called her to care for the lad, hadn’t He? Surely that meant whether he was awake or not. She whispered a prayer for strength and scooted closer to her patient, but she left a foot between them—for propriety’s sake as well as to ease any uncertainty he might hold for her intentions.

“Áedach, I’m happy to see you awake and talking, but you’re plainly far from fully recovered. I need to see if your temperature has come down. And you need a poultice treatment.”

He shifted uncomfortably and smoothed his hands over his tattered clothes. At length he nodded and averted his gaze from hers.

She laid a shaky hand upon his forehead, relieved to discover the searing heat she’d felt from him thus far was gone. “You’ve still a fever, but it’s lower than it was, thanks be to God.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she opened his shirt to apply the poultice. Having him awake for the treatments was proving far more awkward than she had expected. After patting his chest thoroughly with the herbs, she placed the poultice in the center of his sternum.

He looked from the poultice to her and back. “What now?”

“Well, um—” Now it was her turn to shift nervously.

“What is it, so? Yer face is the color o’ summer berries. Wha’ else must ya do?”

“In order to get the full benefits, the herbs must sit on your chest for a good while. I’ll refresh it with hot water a few times in the process.”

“So . . . we just sit ’ere?”

“Yes. Usually, though—” Her voice trailed off. She needn’t have been so sheepish.

“Wha’? Just say it, woman!”

“Usually, while the herbs do their work, I read aloud to you. From the Scriptures.”

Áedach pursed his lips and lines creased his brow, showing his confusion.

Moira produced Peg’s notebook, wagging it in her hand. “I’ve been reading the Bible to you. God’s Word?” His blank stare spoke volumes. She searched her mind for the Gaelic word—she’d heard Peg and Colm use it before. At long last it came to her. “Bíobla. Am I saying that right? I’ve been reading from the Bíobla.”

Recognition dawned on his face before his eyes clouded and he sank back against the wall once more. “Do wha’ ya like.”

“We’ve read quite a lot in the Psalms, but I’ve also read some from the book of John—eh, that’s Eoin, I believe?” She looked to him for confirmation but found only a blank stare and furrowed brow. She cleared her throat and read, “‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’” She lifted the poultice from his chest, dipped it in the hot water, squeezed out the excess with her free hand, and placed it back on his chest. “‘For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed on the name of the only begotten Son of God.’”

“Humph.” Áedach shifted, clearly uncomfortable. She jolted when he snatched the poultice from his chest, flinging it so it landed in the bowl with a plop. Clutching his shirt around himself, he turned away from her.

Staring at Áedach’s back, the clear path of his spine protruding beneath his rag of a shirt, Moira silently gathered her things to go. She pulled her cape—which lay in a heap at his feet—up to cover his body. After a final stoke of the fire to be sure it wouldn’t go out prematurely, she turned toward the door. As she pushed it open, Áedach stirred.

“Ye’ll come again amárach, won’t ye, Miss?”

Moira smiled. “Of course.”