“You’re from Inis Morra, aren’t you?” she said.
The three men looked at one another, unsure whether to answer.
None of them had succeeded in masking their accents. Maybe they simply hadn’t had as good a teacher as Mrs Harrow.
“I can hear it,” she said, making sure her own Morran accent was clear. “Where are you from?”
The tall soldier weighed his answer a moment before answering. “Balnador.”
“I’ve an aunt next door in Liscarra.”
A smile cracked his face. “My grandmother’s from Liscarra,” he said, a hint of pride slipping through.
Aoife’s smile warmed. “We used to visit in the summers. Do you know the ash tree at the crossroads? The one with the hollow in the trunk?”
The soldier laughed. “Know it? I fell out of it when I was eight. Broke my wrist clean through.”
Aoife huffed a breath. “I fell out of that tree as a child too.” In truth, she’d been only a few feet from the ground, and her older brother had pushed her for climbing too slowly. Her heart clenched at the memory of him, but it was a pain she’d long since grown accustomed to.
The soldier with the wonky nose snorted behind him, and the older soldier gave him a warning look, but he kept going, his voice softening with memory.
“What about the river?” he asked. “The one that runs behind the old mill. Do you know it? We used to fish for eels there. My da says the Shee hide under the reeds.”
Aoife nodded, her throat tightening. “My brother swore he saw lights over the water once. Said it meant the year would be lucky.”
A beat.
“It wasn’t.”
The soldiers went quiet.
“Aye. Seems the luck’s run thin for all of us.”
The older soldier jabbed him in the ribs.
Aoife looked between them, unwilling to let the fragile thread of connection break.
They were like her, far from home, trying not to be swallowed by an empire that hated everything they came from.
“In Liscarra,” she said, “people look after one another. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s dangerous.” She knew better than to name anything directly and could only hope they understood. She held out her hand. “I’m Aoife.”
The tall soldier hesitated only a second. “Lugh,” he said at last.
But before he could take her hand, the older soldier caught his arm.
He was lean-faced and wary, a man who had survived too much to trust easily. He shook his head once at Lugh, eyes fixed on Aoife, judging everything about her.
“Kian,” Lugh complained.
“You don’t know her,” Kian muttered. “Could be a trap.”
“She’s not trapping anyone,” Lugh said, irritation flaring. “She’s—”
“She’s one of us,” the third man said simply.
The one with the wonky nose stepped forward and took Aoife’s offered hand without hesitation. He was stockier than Lugh; his grip was warm and steady.
“Norin,” he said.
