Colleen couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, could only hear the sounds of her feet crunching in the snow, the feeling of hands gripping her arms, pulling her along so forcefully she was barely touching the ground. Whispers from all around, people wondering what was happening, where she was being taken—she wondered, too, honestly.
She slipped on some ice, and then the soldiers really did just pick her up—to keep her from falling, maybe, but also to quicken the pace. “Hang her!” someone shouted, not too far away, and they sounded wild, savage, furious. “She burnt my whole life down!” said someone else, and someone spat at her. And someone threw snow at her. And someone threw something harder at her.
She wanted to break free and run back, but she knew that would never happen. That was the price of her freedom: she could never look back and—
///
—no one spoke as the magistrate settled into his seat at the head of the dining table. Colleen’s sisters—Isabelle, Theresa and Harriet—warmed their hands on their teacups, watching the stranger with wide-open eyes, desperate for the news they’d been seeking since before Colleen got home.
Colleen had no tea. She had no hope. Her eyes were downcast, red from very nearly crying.
“Ladies,” said the magistrate, hat in hand. “In the matter of your father…”
He seemed at a loss, unsure how to proceed, so Colleen helped him to it:
“He’s dead,” she said, and the look on his face told them she was right, and Harriet started to wail as a—
\\
—plate smashed on the floor, spraying pieces far and wide. Colleen stared down at it, like it was a curiosity, like she hadn’t known that would happen. As if the four other plates before it hadn’t given her a clue.
Theresa rushed to the door, heart racing, panicked that something terrible was happening all over again. But when she saw Colleen standing there with another plate in her hands, hovering it over the floor like it was some alien object she was inspecting—Theresa paused, a frown knotting her brow.
“What are you—” she said, and Colleen dropped the plate. It, too, shattered everywhere. The floor was littered with shards, but Theresa rushed in anyway, snatching another plate from Colleen’s hand before she could ruin it, too.
“Stop that!” she snapped. “Why are you like this?”
“No one’s washed the dishes,” said Colleen, blankly. “And I just don’t have it in me.”
She tried to take the plate from Theresa, but found resistance. Theresa wasn’t going to let the carnage continue.
Colleen slapped her across the face, and the plate fell anyway, and Theresa—
///
—picked up her suitcase, giving the house one last look. Isabelle and Harriet were already out the door, loading their things into the sleigh and getting settled, but Theresa still felt too much of a pull from their house, from the memories it held, from the people left behind.
She looked into the living room, where Colleen was spread out on the sofa, covered in heavy blankets, staring at the ceiling like it was the most exciting thing in the world.
Theresa wanted to say something to her, wanted to try…
But she lifted the suitcase and walked away.
Their uncle Finbar came down the stairs with one last bag, pausing at the door before turning back to face his ghost of niece.
“I know it’s hard, dearie,” he said. “God knows it hurts. But this place is poison to you, Colleen. You don’t get out, and get out soon, there’ll be nothing left of you at all.”
She shifted her gaze to him, but her expression stayed blank.
“Good.”
The way she said it sent a chill down his spine, and she—
\\
—sat at her window, in the rocking chair by her bed, staring out through the fogged glass at the street beyond. Her hair was a mess, her skin pale and clammy, sweat beading on her forehead as a fever raged out of control. There was no fire in the hearth—no wood to fuel it, either—but it wasn’t the cold that was getting her, it was the grief. She looked outside at the people walking this way and that, hustling in the frigid February air, huddled close to keep warm.
“Maggie, are you there?” she whispered, her breath forming clouds as she spoke.
There was no answer, just as there hadn’t been the last dozen times she’d tried.
“I’m ready now,” she said. “I’m done here.”
Still, no answer.
“Alright,” she said, and closed her eyes to—
A sound, downstairs. She sat up, listening carefully. The creak of a hinge, and scuffling as someone knocked the snow off their boots.
Colleen wrapped herself in her blanket and hurried out of her room, down the stairs and into the living room, where a young lad of no more than ten was searching through drawers for valuables. He heard her come in, and spun around, a small blade in his hand, holding it out like it was far more impressive than it was.
“Wh-who are you?” he squeaked, backing up and knocking over a side table, sending an ashtray tumbling, spraying filth everywhere. “H-how did you—?”
“Kill me,” she said, and dropped the blanket from her shoulders, spreading her arms so her sweat-soaked nightgown could breathe one last time.
The boy inched further back. “P-pardon?”
She looked him dead in the eye and said, without any hint of doubt or delay: “Kill me.”
The boy lost his nerve, fast, and dashed out the back door, and Colleen—
///
—sat at the table, the tip of the knife pressed in the middle of the handkerchief. The handkerchief that Maggie had returned. The hint—why hadn’t she recognized it?—that everything was about to go horribly wrong. She twisted the knife, and the fabric frayed and broke. Her fever was out of control, making it hard to focus, but she could focus on that.
The back door opened a crack, and then a little more, and the cold air rushed in and added to her shivering. She didn’t turn to look, though. She kept her eyes fixed on the knife tip, and how it was shredding the last evidence of her happier self.
“Well now,” said a voice, sounding intrigued and amused. “This sure is a sight.”
She sighed, stopped twisting the knife, and closed her eyes. “Just get it over with.”
The man slipped into the seat across from her, lounging like he owned the place, grinning at her with his rotting teeth and ratty beard. “Get what over with?”
“All of it. Do what you came to do, and kill me, and go.”
The man grinned at her. “What makes you think I’d want to kill ye?”
Her eyes met his with pure, horrible hatred. “Because that’s what you do, Mr Sisk.”
He chuckled, slipped his knife from his belt and slapped it on the table between them. He turned it, carefully, until its blade touched the edge of the one she had pinned into the handkerchief.
“Didn’t realize anyone still lived here,” he said, looking around like he thought he might buy the place. “How many of you are left?”
“Just me,” she said. “You only get me.”
He licked his teeth. “I’ve done more with less.” A thought came to him. “Yer bitch friend is dead, y’know.”
“I know.”
“Shot in the face.”
“I know.”
“Left for the wolves, out by—”
“I know!” she said, and slammed the knife into the table so hard it stuck. Her face was twisted up with anger, but also grief. Tears were welling in her eyes for the first time since Maggie had sent her away, and they burned like nothing she’d ever felt before.
Sisk tipped his head to the side, grinning at the state of her. “Tell me what ye think of me.”
“You’re a monster,” she said.
He laughed. “Oh, ye can do better than that. I killed yer father, after all.”
“I hate you,” she said, but it still wasn’t enough for him, so he said:
“He begged me t’stop. Begged me to let ‘im live—”
“I hate you.”
“Or at least I think he was. Couldn’t make a sound with his throat slit open and—”
“Just kill me!” she screamed, and ripped the knife from the table—
—and threw it across the room. It clattered to the ground, and the whole world was silent once more.
Sisk gave her a wink. “Feel better?”
She stared at him. Through him. And then a thought came to her, which seemed to surprise even her: “I feel nothing at all.”
“Lucky,” he said. “All I ever do is feel.” He pressed a finger into the hole in the handkerchief, pressing down with all his might. “Like I’ve got this wound in the middle of me that never heals.”
“Where your soul should be.”
“Maybe.” He sat forward, inspecting the handkerchief like it cared about it at all. “You know why she died, that bitch friend of yours? The dear, departed Mrs Kelly?”
“Because she crossed you.”
“That was fast. Given it a lot of thought, have ye?”
The tears kept coming, and Colleen made no move to stop them. “It’s all I have left.”
“Well it’s wrong,” he said. “She died ‘cause she had the audacity to go on livin’ without my consent. You see it, don’t ye? I choose when your last breath leaves ye. Not you. Not God. Not anyone but me. Constable Kelly is dead because—”
“Because you’re evil.”
“—because he thought he shouldn’t be. He thought it wasn’t his time, and I set him straight. And your father, thinkin’ he would fight for you ‘til his dyin’ breath. But his dyin’ breath had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t for you. It was for me.”
She looked at his horrible face, his horrible, awful face, and couldn’t take it anymore. She snatched the knife from the table and held it out—
—and he didn’t even flinch.
“What’s that about?” he asked, like he genuinely didn’t know.
Her hand trembled, but the blade stayed pointed at him.
He laughed, getting to his feet and straightening his coat.
“I choose when you die, Ms Crowley. Not you.”
He left without another word, and Colleen—
\\
—lay at the bottom of the steps, her vision coming in and out of focus as she tried to tell which parts of her hurt the most, and which had already given up trying. It had been hours since she’d tumbled down the stairs—or days? she couldn’t tell—and the temperature in the house was starting to eat away at her sense of self. She felt nothing but cold. Even her fever was a theory, in the back of her memory, that she could ignore without consequence.
“I’m done with this,” she wheezed, and her eyes drifted closed, and her heartbeat slowed until—
“Aw, what’s this now?” said Sisk, and she realized he was standing over her. She could hear the grin on his face, the way his head was cocked as he took in the sight of the poor dying Crowley girl.
She wanted to turn away, block him out, but she couldn’t make her body move at all.
He crouched down until she could smell the blood on his clothes, the sourness to his breath. His finger traced a line up her bare arm, up her neck—
—and paused. He pressed his hand to her forehead.
“Oh no ye don’t, Ms Crowley,” he said. “I ain’t done with you yet.” He took her under the arms and—
///
—birds were singing somewhere just out of reach. She could hear it, but she couldn’t quite tell which direction they were coming from, or even how there were birds at all, since it was still the dead of winter. She opened her eyes, squinting as the bright sunlight blinded her, and saw, outside…green.
There was a taste on her lips, and when she touched it with her tongue, a memory came flooding back: the warm embrace of euphoria, like a massive pink blanket, soaked through with warm wine, and she was swaddled in it ‘til breathing seemed a nuisance she could do without.
It took a moment to snap out of it, to get back to the present.
There was something in her hand. A small glass vial. She tried to focus on it, but her eyes just wouldn’t cooperate.
She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, but couldn’t find the strength to look, to see, to react. She just lay there, limp, waiting for her fate to find her.
Sisk came into the room with bread and carrots in a basket, ready to set them down until he noticed she was awake. His face broke into a smile.
“Well now, Ms Crowley. Nice to see those eyes again.”
She wanted to turn away, but just couldn’t.
He sat down on the bed next to her, brushing the hair from her face. “Tell me you love me.”
“Kill me,” she wheezed, helpless.
He smiled at her, patted the top of her head. “That’s my girl. First time in weeks you’ve made any sense at all.”
He tried to stand, but she caught him with a desperate hand, held tight. “Just…let…me…die…”
He leaned down, right close until his beard brushed her cheek and his breath was warm in her ear. “Ye have to earn it first.”
If she’d had the tears left, she might have cried. But all she could do was stare at the ceiling as he unpacked his food, and sat in the rocking chair, looking out the window, watching—
\\
—rain cascading down the glass as the storm settled in. Colleen’s pillows were propped up so she could sit and watch, but all she could do was stare at the bread in her hand, and wonder why she didn’t want to eat any of it at all. She felt ill just thinking about it—but she hadn’t eaten for days. The laudanum made the time pass so strangely, she didn’t need to move for days.
Sisk glanced over his shoulder at her, from his perch in the rocking chair, and sipped his whisky. “I like it here,” he said. “Quiet. Homey.”
“It’s yours,” said Colleen. “On my passing.”
He laughed. “How generous. But no, I was thinkin’ it’d be a nice place to raise a brood.”
Now Colleen’s nausea got even worse. She dropped the bread onto her lap, swallowing bile. “Y-you—”
“Never gave it much thought before,” he said. “But with things quietin’ down as much as they are, it’s got me wonderin’ what I’ll do on those cold winter nights, with no borders to patrol.”
Sisk already spent almost every day with her, tormenting her without touching her, drawing out her life for his own amusement. It was already unbearable, but the thought of it getting worse was too much to bear. What did he imagine? He’d go out for a few hours each day to beat and kill and maim, and then return home to his drug-addled prisoner and their sickly, rat-like children? That he’d terrorize them the way he terrorized her? Make them pray for death every day, but deal out mercy like a capricious god?
No. No, it was too much.
“You’re getting soft,” she said, not like a taunt, but a statement. Statements hurt him more than anything, she knew. Statements he didn’t like threw him into a rage.
He scoffed at the words. “How do you figure? I cut a man’s ear off this morning, and fed it to his wife. How’s that soft?”
“Your knife is sharp, but you…” she nodded at him. “You’ve gone soft. Where is the Cedric Sisk of old, who killed a man for wearing the wrong shoes?”
Sisk turned the rocking chair around to face her. He slammed it down before sitting again. His face was tense, but not angry yet.
“I’m right here, Ms Crowley. Right here.”
“I don’t see it,” she said. “You’re just another lay-about, like the sloths ‘cross the water. Hoarding their coins while talking big tales about the days when they were real men. If they ever were.”
His hands tightened around the arms of the chair. “Oh, I’m a real man, still.”
“But for how long? No borders to patrol, you said? Then what exactly are you good for?”
His nostrils flared and his eyes twitched as he glared at her with such righteous fury, she knew for certain the end was near, and she was ready for it. All she had to do was stay the course, play the part, and he would finally free her of this misery.
“Cedric Sisk,” she said, derisively. “The esteemed gentleman. The nearly-English Irishman.”
Something in those words changed him. His eyes darted to the side, and his grip on the chair loosened, and it was like his breath left him for a second.
“No…” he said. “No, never.”
She was losing him. She had to get him back. Make him hate her again. “Oh, you like it. Admit it.”
“No, Aylen likes it,” he said. “This is Aylen’s dream, not mine.”
“And you’re his puppet. He goes west, and so do you. Like a good little boy.”
Sisk’s mind was working like mad, but she couldn’t tell to what end. Whatever it was, it was making him angrier by the second: “Business takes sacrifice,” he said. “We Irish know how to sacrifice.”
“So you’d sacrifice your own kind for some sweet English money and—”
“No!” he shouted, up on his feet. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever say that. I’m a loyal Irishman, right to the end. Don’t you ever…” he grabbed her by the arm and jerked her forward, face right close to hers, teeth bared like he was ready to bite her throat out. “Ye say that again, and you’ll wish for a death as quick as yer father’s.”
She saw it in his eyes: he meant it. All she had to do was question his manhood, his Irishness, one more time, and he would gut her like a fish just to watch her die.
One more jab, and it was all over.
But there was something else there, too: an uncertainty. A doubt. A worry that maybe she was right, and maybe he was losing sight of who he was, and what he was meant to do. A division between himself and Aylen that he couldn’t quite reconcile.
A division she could turn into a chasm, if she tried.
And suddenly the emptiness in Colleen’s life felt a little different than before. She couldn’t bring back Rían, or Liam, or Maggie or her father. She couldn’t undo the past, or make the future any better.
But she could absolutely turn Cedric Sisk against his master, and watch them tear each other to bits. And maybe, if she was lucky, she might die in the crossfire.
“Kill me,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back to expose her throat. “Just kill me.”
Sisk’s face twitched into a grin, and he bit his lip ‘til it drew blood. “Not yet, Ms Crowley,” he said. “I’m not done with you yet.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Colleen wasn’t done yet, either.