Chapter 1
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It clung to the thatch, slid down the stone walls, and settled into the bones of the cottage as if it meant to stay forever. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth, weak broth, and something else Annie O’Roarke could not bring herself to name.
Patrick was dying.
He lay on the narrow bed near the hearth, though no fire had burned there since the peat ran out two days prior. His breathing had grown shallow, each inhale a quiet struggle, each exhale a surrender. Annie sat beside him, her hand wrapped around his, though it had long since lost its warmth.
“Annie…” he murmured.
“I’m here,” she answered quickly, leaning closer. “I’m right here, Patrick.”
His eyes opened only halfway, unfocused but searching. “Mam… where’s Mam?”
At the far side of the room, Kathleen O’Roarke stiffened but did not turn.
“I’m here,” she said, though her voice was sharp, as if the words themselves offended her. She stood at the small table, scraping the bottom of a blackened pot with unnecessary force. “I’ve been here the whole of it.”
Annie glanced toward her mother-in-law, then back to Patrick. “She’s here,” she whispered gently. “Rest now.”
But Patrick did not seem to hear her. His gaze drifted again, somewhere beyond the low ceiling, beyond the cold stone walls, beyond the reach of anything Annie could follow.
“I thought…” he said faintly, “there’d be more time.”
Annie’s throat tightened. She pressed his hand to her cheek. “So did I.”
Across the room, Kathleen let out a hard breath, slamming the spoon down onto the table.
“Time?” she snapped. “What good has time done us? Look around you.” She turned then, her eyes bright—not with tears, but something sharper. “The land’s gone. The food’s gone. And now—” Her voice caught, just for a moment. “Now this.”
Annie said nothing. There was nothing to say that would not break something further.
Patrick stirred again, weaker now. “Mam… don’t be cross.”
The words seemed to strike Kathleen harder than any blow. Her mouth opened, then closed. For a fleeting second, something softer flickered across her face—but it vanished just as quickly.
“I’m not cross,” she said, though her tone had not softened. “I’m… I’m only saying what is.”
Annie bowed her head.
“Give us this day our daily bread…” she whispered, almost without thinking.
Kathleen let out a bitter laugh. “Bread? There’s not a crumb left in this house, girl. Best be asking for something else.”
Annie did not respond. Her voice continued, quiet but steady.
“…and forgive us our trespasses…”
Patrick’s breathing hitched.
Annie looked up quickly. “Patrick?”
His grip tightened weakly around her fingers, then loosened. His chest rose once more—
—and stilled.
The silence that followed was not sudden. It crept in slowly, like fog, filling every corner of the room until there was no space left for anything else.
“Patrick?” Annie whispered again, though she already knew.
She leaned closer, searching his face for any sign—any movement—but there was none. Only stillness. Only the quiet.
Her hand trembled against his.
Across the room, Kathleen did not move.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, staring. Then, with a sharp inhale, she turned away and began gathering the few dishes from the table, stacking them one atop the other with rigid precision.
“That’s that, then,” she said flatly.
Annie’s head lifted, her eyes wide. “Kathleen—”
“What would you have me do?” Kathleen snapped, though she still did not look at her. “Wail? Tear at my hair? Will it bring him back?”
“No…” Annie’s voice broke. “But he was your son.”
“And he is gone,” Kathleen replied, finally turning. Her face was pale, her jaw set tight. “And we are still here.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding.
Annie looked back at Patrick—at the stillness that had once been laughter, warmth, life—and something inside her cracked open.
“I’ll sit with him,” she said quietly.
Kathleen gave a short nod. “You do that.”
She moved toward the door, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
“Where are you going?” Annie asked.
“To see about Father Donnelly,” Kathleen answered. “He’ll need to come.”
The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold, wet air.
She paused only a moment before stepping out into the rain.
“And Annie,” she added without turning, “there’s no use wasting what little we have left. We’ll bury him tomorrow.”
The door shut behind her.
Annie was alone.
She turned back to Patrick, her hand still resting in his, though there was no warmth left to hold onto. The rain tapped softly against the roof, steady and unrelenting.
For a while, she said nothing.
Then, slowly, she bowed her head.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” she whispered, her voice trembling but determined. “I shall not want…”
The words felt fragile in her mouth, like something that might break if spoken too loudly.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
Her eyes closed.
Outside, there were no green pastures—only blight and mud and hunger. Inside, there was only loss.
Still, she continued.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
Her fingers tightened slightly around Patrick’s hand.
“I will fear no evil.”
The rain fell harder against the roof.
Annie drew in a slow, unsteady breath.
“For Thou art with me.”
And though the cottage was cold, and the future uncertain, and the grief sharp enough to steal the air from her lungs—
she held to the words.
Because they were all she had left.
And, perhaps, all she needed.
