Page 51 of The Pirate Queen

But Gráinne? She wants nothing from him. She is simply content to keep his company. Listen to his pipes. And for that, she has earned his undying loyalty.

And so he follows her back down the hill.

The sun is lower, but it hasn’t sunk. They likely have an hour before sunset, but they’ve been wandering for much longer than that now, in nothing close to a straight line, and he has not been paying attention to their route.

Donal catches up to his sister and peers over her shoulder. The compass lies in her palm like an egg, her index finger through the bow holding it steady. She reads the needle and lines like they are runes, her own Ogham script; then she sets off again at an angle, her pace confident. Downhill now and different muscles in his legs begin to burn. They are moving fast enough that Donal must glance at his feet to make sure of his footing.

His trews are covered in cleavers, small green sticky burs that attached themselves during their earlier hike through the fields. It will take him hours to pick them off. And he’ll have to, or his mam will fuss at him for bringing them into the house. She hates the beastly little things. Chucks them into the fire every chance she gets, just to watch them fizz and spark.

Donal is worried now. Time is slipping away, taking daylight with it.

Keep an eye on your sister.

Hard to do when he must keep an eye on his feet as well, lest he tumble down the hill. But Gráinne is as sure-footed on this croagh as she is on a ship’s deck, never tripping on root or rock.

Soon the woods thin and he glimpses the wider fields. A glint of water—the sound, he hopes—beyond. But there is water all over on this island, and they could just as easily be running toward a lough or river as they could toward the tower house.

Gráinne is also covered in the pesky little cleavers. Her skirt. Apron. Even her hair, though Donal won’t tell her this now. She hates combing her hair, and she’ll have a right mess of it tonight.

“See!” she announces proudly. “Kildavnet.”

Donal squints. As always, the horizon is blurry. Browns and greens below, blues and grays above. He sees, but never well at a distance.

“Are you sure?”

She takes off running. “Hurry! He’ll be out soon.”

Out of the tower house. Done with the shepherds. Finished with the whiskey and bartering.

Donal stretches out his long legs. All pretense at leisure is gone. The pipes bounce against his back. His breath comes faster.

One field, then a rock fence. Gráinne scrambles over it; he leaps. Fields and fences. More than he cares to count lie between them and what he can just now make out as the tower house, the tall gray structure rising up from the ground. A mile away, maybe more.

They’re both running now.

Only a splinter of sun is left above the horizon, and the entirety of Achill Sound is washed in gold through the streaky clouds. The tower is closer, the rocky shoreline in view.

Breath and pounding footsteps and the occasional mewling call of kittiwakes, now in from their winter at sea, are all that he can hear.

Then the tower is finally before him. He presses a hand to the damp stone base to steady himself. Long breaths through his nose, air wheezing through his burning chest. Gráinne makes it to the well first. Lowers the bucket. Hauls up the cold water. She scoops it into her hands and gulps it down, water dripping off her chin. Donal lets her finish, then takes his turn.

Sated, he finally drops to the ground, his back to the well, marveling that they beat the sun. It dips below the horizon, gone entirely, as Gráinne begins to laugh and plops down beside him.

“You thought we wouldn’t make it,” she says.

“We almost didn’t.”

“Almost isn’t the same thing.”

They sit in silence for a moment, hearts slowing, breath evening out. After a moment, Donal turns his head to look at his sister.

“You like getting lost.” It’s not a question, but an observation. Something new he has learned about his sister today.

She shakes her head. “I like knowing that I can always find my way home.”

The compass has returned to her apron, and she no longer resembles the mischievous little scamp from the woods. She’s once more just an unassuming girl.

Donal smiles at his sister, but she turns away, blinking hard.