Chapter 54

Sleep eluded Moira. She rolled from her box bed and opened the door to her press. There hung the blue velvet dress, its fibers shimmering in the moonlight from the window. Recalling how beautiful she’d felt when she tried it on at the shop, how perfectly it had hugged her body, and the look in Sean’s eyes when he saw her wearing it, her stomach fluttered. Heat pricked her cheeks as she allowed her mind to ponder how he might react.

Imagining him requesting the honor of a dance, Moira lowered into a deep curtsy. Never mind she was barefoot in her nightdress, she twirled and swayed a waltz with her imaginary hero right there in her bedchamber, while images of the halla aglow in firelight and the company of good folk danced in her mind’s eye.

Her reverie was cut short when the church bells began to toll. Judging by the depth of darkness and the height of the moon, it couldn’t have been any later than ten o’clock. Shouts arose on the street outside her door, and the sound of feet slapping the road in haste beckoned her to the window. Men of all ages fled hither and yon, some carrying buckets, others shouting orders in Irish. Moira grabbed her robe, tied the belt hastily around her waist, and hurried outside.

An orange glow lit the horizon while the activity in the streets reached a frenetic pace. Moira hastened to join a group of women gathered on the footpath. “What is it? What’s happened?”

The women stared ahead at the growing glow, not looking to see who had asked the questions. One woman who bounced a sleeping baby on her hip mumbled something in Irish. Crackling and popping sounds floated on the air, while another woman translated. “’Tis a fire. I’ve not gone down to see, but only one t’ing could burn like that.”

“The halla,” the other women replied in unison.

Moira gasped. “The halla?” She grabbed a handful of her robe skirts and sprinted down the road, paying no mind to her instructions to go nowhere alone. Buach would have to be daft—daft and very bold, indeed—to try anything with so many people about.

Horses, carts, and people littered the street. Moira darted as carefully as she could among them, desperate to reach the halla. She had to see for herself.

Please, God, not the halla.

The glow on the horizon grew as she neared. Watching for any sign of the fire dying, Moira’s focus stayed on the halla and not on the street in front of her. Her shoulder ached. She’d knocked over someone else in the crowd.

Mortified, Moira uttered an apology and reached down to help the woman. When she was on her feet again, the woman cleared the hair from her face. It was Sinead.

“Oh, friend, I’m terribly sorry. Isn’t it awful? What shall we do?”

Sinead glared at Moira. “Ye shall not do a t’ing. That halla belongs to Ballymann and her people. Not transients of low moral character.” Sinead turned on her heel and ran toward the market.

As much as she’d like to make amends, Moira couldn’t force Sinead to believe her any more than she could force the sun to shine. More pressing matters demanded her attention anyhow. Gathering her thoughts, and her skirts, she hurried to the halla. Men were scattered about, shouting orders and gathering myriad supplies. A chain of farmers, weavers, shepherds, and others stretched from the halla down to the sea, passing buckets back and forth, the first man in the line tossing water onto the building before sending the empty bucket back again.

Moira sank onto a boulder at the corner of the road to Peg’s house. Flames licked the sky and poured from the windows. The valiant efforts of the townsmen seemed futile against such a blaze. Through her tears, Moira made out Sean’s silhouette at the front of the line of men. Of course he would be first in line to help.

She hadn’t meant to distract him, but when he caught sight of her through the hazy glow, Sean handed his bucket to the man behind him and made his way over to her.

“Ya shouldn’t be here. ’Tisn’t safe.”

Moira looked at his face. Fatigue and heartbreak were written all over it. Soot streaked across his forehead and down one cheek. She fought the urge to smooth it away with her hand. “I had to see.” She eyed the flames once more. “How can I help?”

Sean looked back at the building and shook his head. “’Tis done now, lass. Naught more we can do but try and douse the flames. That thatch on the roof is so dry, it won’t go out in a hurry. And you’ve seen the bales inside lining the walls. They make fine seats for tired dancers on a cold night, but unfortunately they also make great kindling.”

“What a shame.” Moira laid a hand on his arm. “I never would have dreamed a stone building could burn so.”

“Aye,” Sean said. He looked at Moira, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something more, but Peg’s voice ripped through the night air.

“Colm!” She screamed. “Colm!” She lunged toward the building, but Sean caught her in his arms.

“No, no one’s inside.” He turned and squinted at the windows. The roof groaned and a loud crack split the sky.

“He said . . . he said he was going to check one more thing.” Peg beat Sean’s chest with her fists. “He said somethin’ wasna sittin’ right with him and he had to go check on the halla. Colm!”

As if in response to her screams, the roof groaned again before collapsing completely into the building. Flames shot into the night sky. Peg crumpled to the ground, a guttural cry unlike any Moira had ever heard piercing the air.

She wrapped her arms around Peg and nodded to Sean. “Go!”

Sean ran to the other men. “Colm Sweeny’s inside, lads. Let’s go! Move it! Get that water over here! You—head over there.” Sean continued to call out orders while the men went into swift action. Bríd and some other women from the village gathered around Peg and Moira. Bríd’s prayers mixed with the cacophony as others wept openly. Still others could do nothing but stand and watch, mouths agape. Peg’s wails echoed on through the night.