Tears splintered Padraig’s vision as he read.
Father, Mother, Brother,
It pains me to write this letter, but I fear I am at the end. So many have died already, and I must consider that might be my fate. I want to live, and I’m fighting, but I write this for fear of not saying a few final words to each of you.
This illness has been short and difficult, and as I am weak, so too will this letter be.
Da, I am ever grateful for the father you have been. My respect for you is only exceeded by my love. Forgive me, but I’ll ask one more thing of you. At my wake, raise a glass of whiskey and remember the good times. There were so many. I will miss you, Da.
Mum, I’m sorry for your tears. A mother shouldn’t have to bury her son, and I’m sorry for it. Always know that I tried to be a good son, to make you happy and proud. You were a wonderful mother, the best in the world. I wish I could kiss you good-bye. I love you, always.
Padraig paused and wiped his face, scrubbing his hand over his streaming eyes. Every word was a dagger stabbing him all over, leaving a million tiny wounds. He forced himself to read the rest, the part intended for him.
The first word made him suck in his breath, as if a heavy blow had just landed against his back. Dorchadas. Gaelic for darkness. Aidan was the light, Lóchrann. Their father, Rogan, had called them by those names when they were boys, two twins, one with hair as black as night, the other golden, kissed by sunlight.
And it now seemed prescient, for Padraig felt as if a great light had truly gone out.
Dorchadas, I do not know what to say to you, brother. What are words between us, when you and I share our own language? Do you feel this, Pad? Do you feel my suffering now? Will feel me go? I hope not. I hope you are spared that, at least.
Padraig wanted to scream in frustration, because he hadn’t felt it, and he knew he should have.
If there’s one blessing for me in all this, it’s that I won’t have to live without you. You’re going to carry the burden of it, and I’m sorry.
There is no I, nor you. Only us. Death cannot take that.
Live your life well. Live it for us both.
My love to you all,
Aidan
Padraig clutched the letter to his chest, and not caring who saw, dropped to his knees in the street, rocking back and forth, sobbing for his brother.
Mira Kimball stood just inside the magistrate’s office, watching Padraig through the window. She sighed heavily and dashed away a tear. She touched her ring, a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds, given to her the day Aidan proposed.
Her father glanced down to her, clucked his tongue, and shook his head. “I am sorry, dove.”
“Yes,” Mira said on another sigh. She shrugged and looked back out the window. Padraig, grief-stricken, keened in the street without a thought to his dignity. As dramatic a scene as it was, Mira did wish he would display a modicum of control.
“My dress,” she whimpered, unable to conceal the disappointment that she would never get to wear it. It had been made to her specifications, a sparkling, lacy confection that had been sure to be all the on dit.
“You’ll find a new beau, and we’ll design an even prettier gown. Do not fret, my darling girl.”
“’Twill be an eternity,” she whined. “I’ll have to mourn the appropriate time.”
“Right, right,” Andrew murmured. He looked over his daughter’s shoulder to Padraig. “He really ought to take his grief indoors, wouldn’t you say? ’Tis frightfully undignified of him to carry on so.”
Aidan’s visage swam in Mira’s memory, dark blue eyes, burnished gold hair, his face sensual and painfully handsome. She’d wanted him because he was a good match, true, and also because he had a half chance at being the heir to the dukedom. She’d also wanted him because all the other girls that she knew wanted him, too. It had been so delicious, being the first to snag one of the Mullen twins, and call him her own.
But all those selfish reasons aside, she’d enjoyed his company. Aidan had been quick-witted, generous, and his kisses had been scandalously exciting.
“Oh, Papa, he really did die too young.”
“He did, he did. Sad. Now let’s see if we can’t put a smile on your face, darling. What say you to a new bonnet?”
Mira dabbed away the last of her tears and smiled up to her father. He truly was the very best man in the entire world, and Mira knew that no matter what husband she chose, no one would ever be half the man her father was to her. “Yes, that sounds good.”
“Come, my dove.” Andrew took her hand, settled it in the crook of his elbow, and gave her a series of comforting pats. “You’ve had a wretched day.”
“I have,” she agreed, pursing her lips in a pout. Mira looked up to her father’s loving eyes. Inclining her head toward the window and Padraig, she perked up marginally. “’Tis sad, indeed, but also somewhat fortuitous. My betrothed is lost to me, but perhaps his brother and I will seek mutual comfort.” She lowered her voice as she leaned in, whispering to her father what she knew everyone would be thinking, “At least now we know for certain who is the heir.”
The Earl smiled indulgently down on his daughter. He very gently tweaked her nose, and Mira caught the scent of pipe smoke lingering on his glove. “You are a precocious child,” he said with a laugh.
“Precocious?” Mira lightly shrugged her shoulders and cast her gaze outdoors once again. Padraig hadn’t moved, and even from a distance, she could see his shoulder shaking as he wept.
Mira gave a moment’s thought to how she would handle the situation and turn it to her advantage. Her mourning Aidan’s loss would give her something in common with Padraig, a bond to tie them together.
And what would all the other girls think, if she’d managed to catch the other twin after her betrothed died? Mira couldn’t resist thinking of their jealousy, and she smiled. “I am tenacious, Papa.”
Aidan woke again, and to his dismay, his reality hadn’t changed. He still lay nude by a fire, the pelts over him smelling faintly of tanning, peat, and incense.
He moved his hand to his side; the woman was not there.
Opening his eyes, he looked around, seeing that he was in a tiny, round structure made of stone and thatch. Blankets covered the windows, and diffused sunlight filtered its way through the fibers, casting the humble room in shadows. The fire threw off some light, and Aidan noticed that a stack of provisions was neatly set along one curved wall.
He pushed himself to his elbows, weak but determined to find out where he was and what had happened to him. From his elbows he managed to roll to the side, and get up to a seated position.
The fire warmed his naked back as the furs slid from him. And before he could make it to his feet, the door opened and a woman walked in.
She gasped and dropped the kindling she held in her arms. She spoke to him again, a whisper of that strange, fluid tongue. She wore odd garments, a clingy underdress that had wide sleeves belling over her hands, covered with a sleeveless mantle that she had belted around her slim waist. He saw the hilt of a dagger peeking from her wide leather belt, and he had the inkling that the woman knew how to use it.
“Who are you?” Aidan tried to ask, but his voice wouldn’t work. What came out was a thin croak of a sound.
The woman rushed inside, hefted a jug, poured him a cup of water, and pressed it into his hand. Aidan drank greedily, water running down his chin as he gulped