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I nearly spat out my tea.
“I sank it … early this mornin’.”
I blinked at him as I struggled to process what he was saying.
“Took longer than I’d expected, but she was all the way under by sunup.”
Reaching across the table, Kate clasped my hand. “He had to, love. It woulda led ’em right to ya.”
“To us,” Jack added with her mouth full.
To us.
As much as it hurt to lose another part of myself, of my family, I looked around the table and realized that what I had gained was worth so much more than some rusty, old boat.
Squeezing Kate’s and Damien’s hands at the same time, I responded to his worried gaze with one of overwhelming gratitude.
“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling like an eejit. “I should have thought of that. Leaving that boat out there put everybody at risk. I’m so—”
“Breaking news in the war with Russia.” The British newscaster staring at us from the tablet on the table interrupted my apology even faster than Damien. “Officials report that the Irish death toll has just surpassed one thousand. Most of these casualties have been military personnel, which is a devastating blow to the already-depleted Irish Defence Forces. During last year’s conflict in Northern Ireland, it is estimated that the country’s total military strength was reduced to fewer than eight thousand active personnel.”
“Fuck!” Jack shoved her chair away from the table, causing the glowing tablet to fall forward on its face.
Kate gently propped it back up.
“The Irish Defence Forces have chosen to concentrate their efforts on maintaining control of Dublin, leaving all other major ports and cities undefended. Most residents in these areas have fled to rural villages that have yet to be invaded, but several of those who did not get out in time have been captured and taken to makeshift prison camps. According to our war correspondents, Irish detainees are being subjected to daily beatings and ill treatment.”
“Ill treatment,” Jack scoffed, pacing across the kitchen.
Damien slid my chair next to his and wrapped his arm around me.
“Because of Ireland’s unprovoked attack on UK soil last year,” the newscaster continued as scenes from the now-infamous Battle of Belfast played on a green screen behind him, “it has alienated itself from all of England’s allies. Thus, the majority of European and North American countries have closed their borders to Irish refugees.”
“What did I tell ya? What the fuck did I tell ya when the UIB took office?” Jack spat. “I said those gangsters were gonna run this place into the ground.”
“Shh!” Kate hushed, turning up the volume.
“However, in a bold act of defiance against the Crown, the mayor of Boston, Dr. Kendall Fitzpatrick, held a press conference yesterday to announce that she is opening her city to Irish refugees.”
The screen changed to a woman standing at a podium, wearing a helmet of strawberry-blonde hair and a red pantsuit that was just as stiff. A river, bridge, and cityscape glittered behind her.
Dr. Fitzpatrick smiled into the camera and spread her arms as wide as her suit would allow. “Ireland, look behind me. Everything you see here—every bridge, building, and byway—was built with the blood, sweat, and tears of Irish immigrants. Your ancestors came here by the thousands during the Great Famine, bravely forging a new life for themselves and their families. To this day, twenty percent of our citizens claim to be of Irish decent. One hundred percent on St. Patrick’s Day,” she added with a smirk. “So, your history is our history. Your blood runs in our veins. You are family, and you will always be welcome here in Boston.”
Tears welled in my eyes as they lifted and locked on to Damien’s.
Boston.
The idea was exhilarating and terrifying. I’d never even left the island before. I had no money. No friends in America. But we would be safe there, and there was nothing I wanted more than to curl up in Damien’s arms without the fear of being bombed or captured or killed.
“When asked to comment, American President Samuel Torres announced that he will not only allow Boston to accept Irish refugees, but he will facilitate the evacuation effort by sending his largest ships and military aircraft to transport those who wish to leave. In a statement directly following Mayor Fitzpatrick’s, President Torres said, quote, ‘What’s happening in Ireland is a humanitarian disaster that defies politics. We do not support the United Irish Brotherhood, nor do we recognize them as a legitimate political party. The UIB is an organized crime syndicate that has hijacked a country, akin to the Bratva in Russia. The conflict between these two countries is a glorified gang war, plain and simple, and our support lies solely with the innocent Irish people whose lives and livelihoods are at risk because of it.’ ”
Jack scoffed.
“And in what is only his second-recorded appearance since the invasion began, Taoiseach Séamus Rooney has also issued a statement.”
The screen cut to an image of Rooney, red-faced and sweatier than ever, sitting in some kind of windowless bunker. He was wearing a camouflage army uniform—as if he’d ever seen a second of any of the battles he had caused—and was lit as if he were under interrogation.
“People of Ireland,” Rooney sneered, “I speak on behalf of the United Irish Brotherhood, the brave men and women fightin’ on the front lines, and the generations of Irish rebels who came before ya when I say that we are disgusted by the way yous all have been actin’ since this little skirmish began.”
