The Kingdom of Night (Book 3)

Sixteen - Darkness Into Light

Alice

I received Quin's letter in the post when I went to breakfast that morning. His mother, Maeve, wanted to speak with me at my earliest convenience. I had to stop a moment and think. This would force me to come to terms with Rory's death, and the effect that it had had on everyone else. It was no longer just about me and him. Perhaps it never was.

     'Another letter from home?' Iz asked me as she took the spot next to me at the breakfast table. 'Gettin' all sorts of that from home...Mum's feeling poorly.'

     'No, it's Rory's brother,' I said, letting the letter flutter down onto the table. 'He wants me to go to Grangebellew and tell his mother exactly how Rory died. Apparently the War Office lied.'

     'Not surprised about that one, the way they've been treated,' Iz grumbled. 'When does she expect you?'

     'Soon as I can get there, I guess.'

     'Can't go alone, Al, I say. We all know what happens to a woman travelling alone, especially with this war on.'

     I appreciated her support, but despite that, I was still a bit nervous. There was certainly a mutual dislike between the English and the Irish, and not many of our lessons in school had said anything about their uprising during the last war. Nor had they mentioned the English people's general mistreatment of the Irish since the beginning. No wonder Maeve Donahue wanted answers.

     When the day finally came, I spent at least a good hour and a half trying to decide how to dress. I had one set of pedestrian clothes—a dress the color of a robin's egg, with a brown jumper. To accompany it there was a pillbox hat that had been Mum's. This was the outfit I decided on, and I even dragged on a pair of good nylons for the occasion.

     'Oi, Bishop. Clean up good,' Iz said, winking at me when I met her in the entryway. She was similarly dressed in civilian clothing–faded plaid dress with a bow at the collar, short black jacket and a matching velvet hat, navy blue block-heeled shoes.

     'Thanks,' I answered, but my anxiety prevented me from saying much else. This called up the ghosts of that awful day, and the dull pain that throbbed in my chest every time I remembered my realisation that Rory was dead returned. But now my heart ached for his remaining family, the threat of war making it impossible to grieve properly.

     We reached the address she'd given in her letter by midmorning, a small whitewashed cottage off the high street. There was a big brown cow in the field beyond, watching us with mournful eyes as we made our way up the front walk and to the door. I gave it a couple good raps with my knuckles, showing a confidence I didn't feel.

     For a minute, there was no sign that anyone had heard. Then the knob turned, and there stood an older woman about my height and wearing a severe expression. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, and her eyes were the exact shade of blue as both her sons.

     'Can I help you?' She looked strained and irritated, words clipped.

     'Maeve Donahue?' I said, and when she nodded I continued. 'My name's Alice Bishop. Sister Alice Bishop. I was involved with your son Rory.'

     'I know.' She cut across the end of my sentence, just before her son's name. 'About time you came, too. Got some things I want to ask you.'

     She nodded at the kitchen table as we entered, and then proceeded to the kettle. Iz and I took our seats adjacent to each other, and Iz took my hand out of Mrs Donahue's line of sight. She gave it a gentle squeeze, and I returned a faint smile.

     'Now,' said Mrs Donahue, as she filled up three teacups and slid two across to us. 'You say you knew Rory. Quite well, Quin tells me.'

     'Yes, Mrs Donahue. We were...close,' I said, unable to think of a better word. 'And I believe you have the right to know how he died.'