When Byrne clicked his tongue and Polly moved off across the field—heading away from the village—Lib looked back over her shoulder and saw the scene for a moment as if in a painting. Horse and riders, the trees, the fading streaks in the west. Even the bogland with its patches of water. Here at the dead centre, a sort of beauty.

She hurried back into the cabin, feeling to make sure that her memorandum book was still in her apron.

First Lib knocked over both chairs in the bedroom. Next her own bag of equipment; she kicked it towards the chairs. She took her Notes on Nursing and forced herself to toss it onto the pile, where it landed open like a bird’s wings. Nothing could be saved if her story was to be convincing. This was the opposite of nursing: a rapid, efficient work of chaos.

Then she went into the kitchen and retrieved the whiskey bottle from the nook beside the fire. She sloshed the stuff across the pillows and dropped the bottle. She picked up the can of burning fluid and shook a quantity all over the bed, the floor, the wall, the dresser with its little chest tipped open, baring its treasures. She put the lid back on the can only very loosely.

Lib’s hands stank of the burning fluid now; how would she explain that afterwards? She rubbed them hard on her apron. Afterwards didn’t matter. Was everything ready?

Fear not. Only believe, and she shall be safe.

She grabbed a lace-edged card from the treasure chest—some saint she didn’t know—and lit it in the chimney of the lamp. It flared up, the holy figure haloed with flame.

Cleaned by fire, only by fire.

Lib touched it to the tick, which puffed to life, the old straw hissing crisply. A burning bed, like some miracle in bright pastels. The surge of heat on her face reminded her of bonfires on Guy Fawkes Night.

But would the whole room go up in flames? This was their one slim chance of getting away with the fraud. Was the thatch dry enough after three days of sunshine? Lib glared at the low ceiling. The old beams looked too sturdy, the thick walls too strong. Nothing else to be done; the lamp swung in her hand, and she hurled it into the rafters.

Rain of glass and fire.

Lib ran through the farmyard, her apron flaming in her face, a dragon she couldn’t escape. She beat it with her hands. A screech that sounded as if it were coming from some other mouth. She stumbled off the path and threw herself down into the bog’s wet embrace.

It had been raining all night. The constabulary had sent two men down from Athlone, even though it was the Sabbath; right now they were picking through the mucky remains of the O’Donnells’ cabin.

Lib was waiting in the passage behind the spirit grocery, her burnt hands swaddled in bandages, reeking of ointment. Everything hinged on the rain, she thought through waves of exhaustion. On when the rain had begun last night. Would it have put the fire out before the beams could fall in? Was the narrow bedroom reduced to indecipherable cinders, or did it tell—plain as day—the story of a missing child?

Pain. But that wasn’t what held Lib in its grip. Fear—for herself, of course, but also for the girl. (Nan, she called her in her head, trying to get used to the new name.) There was a stage of starvation from which there could be no recovery. Bodies forgot how to deal with food; the organs atrophied. Or perhaps the child’s small lungs had strained too long, or her worn-out heart. Please let her wake up this morning. William Byrne would be there to take care of her, in the most anonymous lodging he knew in the back streets of Athlone. That was as far as he and Lib had planned. Please, Nan, take another sip, another crumb.

It occurred to Lib that the fortnight was up. Sunday was always meant to be the day when the nurses reported to the committee. Two weeks ago, newly arrived, she’d imagined herself impressing the locals with her meticulous account of exposing a hoax. Not looking like this: ash-streaked, crippled, trembling.

She was under no illusions about the conclusions that the committee members were likely to reach. They’d make a scapegoat of the foreigner if they could. But what exactly would the charge be? Negligence? Arson? Murder? Or—if the police realized there was no trace of a body in the smouldering mud—kidnapping and fraud.

I’ll join you both in Athlone tomorrow or the next day, Lib had told Byrne. Had her confident manner fooled him? She was inclined to think not. Like Lib, he’d put on a brave face, but he knew there was a strong possibility that she’d end up behind bars. He and the girl would board a ship as father and child, and Lib would never breathe a word about their destination.

She checked her notebook with its blackened cover. Were the final details plausible?

Saturday, August 20, 8:32 p.m.

Pulse: 139.

Lungs: respirations 35; moist crackling.

No urine all day.

No water taken.

Inanition.

8:47: Delirium.

8:59: Breathing very distressed, heartbeat irregular.

9:07: Gone.

“Mrs. Wright.”

Lib fumbled the book shut.

The nun was at her side, dark under the eyes. “How are your burns this morning?”

“They don’t matter,” said Lib.

It was Sister Michael, coming back from the votive mass, who’d found Lib last night, who’d dragged her out of the bog, led her back to the village, and bandaged her hands. Lib had been in such a state, no acting had been required.

“Sister, I don’t know how to thank you.”

A shake of the head, gaze lowered.