Lib nodded. “Anna O’Donnell dies tonight.” It occurred to her that the girl—who was so rational in her own way—perhaps thought Lib was giving her poison.

“Pat and Anna, together in heaven?”

“Yes,” said Lib. What had he been but an ignorant, lonely boy, after all? Poor banished children of Eve.

“Nan,” said Anna, repeating the syllable with a grave delight. “Eight years old. Far, far away.”

“Yes.” Lib was well aware she was taking advantage of a child on her deathbed. She wasn’t the girl’s friend at this moment; more like a strange teacher. “Trust me.”

When Lib produced the milk bottle and filled the spoon, Anna shied away a little.

No reassurance now, only rigour. “This is the only way.” What was it Byrne had said about emigration? “The price of a new life. Let me feed you. Open your mouth.” Lib was the tempter, the polluter, the witch. Such harm this sip of milk would do to Anna, shackling her spirit to her body again. Such need, such cravings and pains, risk and regret, all the unhallowed mess of life.

“Wait.” The girl held up one hand.

Lib shook with dread. Now, the hour of our death.

“Grace,” said Anna. “I must say grace first.”

The grace to take food, Lib remembered the priest praying for that. Grant her the grace.

Anna dipped her head. “Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, amen.”

Then her ragged lips parted for the spoon, as simple as that.

Lib didn’t say a word as she tipped the liquid into the girl’s mouth. Watched the throat move like a wave. She was ready for choking, retching, cramps, or spasms.

Anna swallowed. Just like that, the fast was broken.

“Now a little crumb of oatcake.” As much as Lib could hold between finger and thumb. She put it on the purplish tongue and waited till it had gone down.

“Dead,” Anna whispered.

“Yes, Anna’s dead.” On an impulse, Lib brought her palm down, covering the girl’s face and closing the swollen eyelids.

She waited a long moment. Then: “Wake up, Nan. Time to begin your new life.”

The child’s wet eyes blinked open.

Through my fault, through my fault. It was Lib who’d bear all the blame for luring this radiant girl back into the land of exile. Weighing her spirit down again, anchoring her to the tarnished earth.

Lib would have liked to give her more food right away, to fill that shrunken body with four months of meals. But she knew the danger of overtaxing the stomach. So she put the bottle and spoon into her apron with the bit of oatcake rolled up in the napkin. Little by little; the way out of the mine was as long as the way in. Lib stroked the girl’s forehead very lightly. “We must go now.”

A quiver. Thinking of the family she was leaving behind? Then a nod.

Lib wrapped the girl up in the warm cloak from the dresser, put two pairs of stockings on the misshapen feet as well as the brother’s boots, mittens on her hands, and three shawls, making a dark bundle of her.

She opened the door to the kitchen, then the two halves of the cabin’s front door. Sun blood-red in the west. The evening was warm, and a lone hen clucked in the yard.

Lib went back to the bedroom and scooped her up. Not heavy at all. (She thought of her own baby, that minute heft in her arms, as light as a loaf of bread.) But as she carried the girl around the side of the house, Lib could feel her own legs shaking.

And then there was William Byrne holding his mare, looming out of the dark. Even though Lib had been watching for him, she jumped. Had she lacked faith that he’d be there as he’d promised?

He said, “Good evening, little—”

“Nan,” Lib interrupted before he could wreck things by saying the old name. “This is Nan.” No going back now.

“Good evening, Nan,” said Byrne, catching on fast. “We’re going for a ride on Polly. You know Polly, I believe. You won’t be scared.”

Huge-eyed, the child said nothing at all, only wheezed and clung to Lib’s shoulders.

“It’s all right, Nan,” said Lib. “We can trust Mr. Byrne.” She met his eyes. “He’s going to take you to a safe place and wait with you, and I’ll be along in a little while.”

Was that true? She meant it, if that was enough; she wanted it with all that she was.

Byrne jumped up into the saddle and leaned down for the girl.

Lib inhaled the scent of the horse. “You were seen leaving this afternoon?” she asked, delaying them for one more moment.

He nodded, patting his satchel. “While I was saddling up, I complained to Ryan about having been called back to Dublin posthaste.”

Finally Lib held out her burden.

The girl clung hard before letting go.

Byrne got her settled on the saddle in front of him. “It’s all right, Nan.”

He gripped the reins in one hand and fixed his eyes on Lib in a curious way, as if he’d never seen her before. No, she thought—as if he were seeing her for the last time and memorizing her features. If their plot went awry, they might never meet again.

She tucked the food in his satchel.

Has she eaten? he mouthed.

Lib nodded.

His grin lit up the darkening sky.

“Another spoonful in an hour,” she murmured. Then she went up on her toes and kissed the only part of him she could reach, the warm back of his hand. She patted the child through the blanket. “Very soon, Nan.” She turned away.