It's a bizarre but wonderful feeling, to arrive dead center of a target you didn't even know you were aiming for. - Lois McMaster Bujold

March 30, 1920

Mater Misericordiae Hospital

Heaven was beautiful. A world of white, shining with a light so bright it hurt his eyes. He could see the darkness receding at the approach of the light; God's angels coming to welcome him in? He was a bit surprised to be in Heaven; he hadn't thought he'd been that good. Maybe they were relaxing the standards a bit, now that the Great War was over and clients weren't pouring in so fast.

It had to be Sybil. His darling Sybil had gotten him in somehow. A word from her and God would bypass all his paperwork, welcome him with open arms no matter how flawed he was. Now all he had to do was settle in and wait…wait for her to join him. The selfish part of him hoped it wouldn't be too long, although he wanted her to have a long life, to raise their child with love and joy.

At the thought of the child, he felt a thickness in his throat and tears welled in his eyes. Would the angels let him see his child? Would he be able to check in, watch them together? Would she hear him in her mind like she had when he was alive? Surely God wouldn't take that away from him.

If only this infernal brightness would go away! Something touched his eye, pulling the lid up, and the light intensified. He flinched, and a wave of agony coursed through him, stopping his breath. He froze and the pain receded. Pain? What was that all about? There wasn't supposed to be any pain in Heaven! Was this a test? Maybe he wasn't home free after all. Maybe he was going to have to answer for the bad things he'd done in his life. Well, he supposed that was fair. Heaven couldn't just accept you at your word. Perhaps he'd have to prove himself worthy. Again. It seemed as if he'd been trying to prove his worth all his life; he was used to it. If only this brightness would go away!

"Tom?" An angel's voice murmured, low and husky, sweeter than any music he'd ever heard. It sounded like Sybil's voice. He wondered if all the angels in Heaven sounded like Sybil. He smiled; that would be nice.

"Tom? Darling, I'm here. Shhh, I'm right here." The voice held such hope, such love, he had to see the speaker. Pulling himself together with all the effort he could muster, he forced his eyes to open, just a bit. The angel appeared out of the clouds in his head, wavering before him, radiant smile chasing away the residual darkness at the edge of his vision. Yesss. The angel looked like Sybil, too. Thank you, God. He sighed and closed his eyes again, allowing the tears of relief to squeeze from beneath his lids and fall where they would. Heaven would be bearable after all. The darkness surrounded him again, carried him off into the void.

Something was touching him, wiping the tears from his face. He lay still, letting the gentle fingers move over him like a whisper, enjoying the tender touch of a human hand. The fingers paused at his lips, tracing their lines like a blind artist appraising his work. He began to sense his body, feel his heart beat, hear the quiet hum of machines. Something hurt. He supposed he'd better see what it was. Tom opened one eye.

"Good morning, darling." Sybil sat beside him, holding his hand. Her face looked drawn under her nurse's cap; there were dark circles under her eyes and worry lines creasing her forehead like tiny rivers. The tracks of tears unheeded shadowed her skin, giving her the look of a forlorn waif. He had never seen anything so beautiful. She lifted his hand and kissed it, new tears bursting free to run down her face.

"Wh—wha…?" His voice was a croak, as if rusty from long disuse.

"Shhh, just rest, darling. You're at the Mater. You were hurt, but you're going to be fine."

"H-hurt?" Well, that explained the pain. He could feel it now, a dull ache in the region of his back and side. He moved, and was sorry. The ache exploded into a sharp agony that knifed through his body, leaving him gasping for breath. "Ahhh! Wha…happened?"

Sybil cupped the beloved face in her hands and looked into his pain-filled eyes. It had been so close. She shuddered at the memory of Tom's still body on the stretcher, skin whiter than Claire's Irish lace, towels saturated with his blood. His eyes were closed, his face cold as marble. She had been sure he was dead, had thought her life over in that moment. But thanks to Dr. Walsh and his surgical team, her husband had pulled through. She was one of the lucky ones.

"Lie still, darling. You were shot. You tried to rescue a young boy from the Black and Tans, and they shot you." She bent to kiss him, the touch of her lips feather light. "You nearly died, but a young medic got you to the hospital on time. You were in surgery for three hours. You lost so much blood, Tom; I thought you were leaving me!" Tears appeared again, unbidden, and she swiped them away with an absent gesture.

Dr. Walsh entered the room, clipboard in hand. "So, how's our patient? Ahh, awake at last. About time, too; we need the bed. I'm getting a little weary of sewing Bransons back together!" he said in mock severity. "How many more of you are there, anyway?"

"Well, if this is an example of your handiwork, I'd rather have been left to die, thank you," Tom muttered. "My insides feel like chopped meat. Did you forget to put back something important?"

Sybil laughed, a weak sound of relief and resolved fear. "I'd like to apologise for my husband," she told Dr. Walsh. "He's rather a big baby. Doesn't handle a little pain well at all." She put her hand over Tom's mouth, and giggled as he gave her palm a weak kiss. "Between you and me, I think he's going to live." She removed the hand and grinned at her husband.

"Hmmmph," grumbled Tom. "Easy for you to say!"

April 3, 1920

The Branson home

"More potatoes?" Claire dumped another helping onto Evan Langdon's plate. "You're too thin."

Evan looked at Maire in desperation, but she shrugged her shoulders and grinned across the table at him. So this was how they were going to do it, he thought. Stuff him like a Christmas goose and then roast him. Very crafty, these Irish. He sighed and picked up his fork. He was as brave as any soldier in his regiment, and had seen much that would unnerve another man, but he was petrified of Claire Branson.

The relationship between Evan and Maire had undergone a sea change since the night he had brought her the wig made from her own hair. It had not happened overnight; Maire was not in a good place and Evan had felt as if he were walking on eggshells. That first night Sybil and Claire had stayed close by, afraid that any small misstep might send Maire back into the maelstrom of shame and anxiety that had tormented her for the two weeks since the attack. Their conversation was mundane, innocuous, and for the most part directed at Sybil, as a sort of go-between. But Maire was talking. It was a start.

At the end of the evening, in a shy voice very unlike her own, Maire had asked Evan to come back the next day. And he had—the next day, and the day after that. And a week later she had met him at the door wearing the wig, and announced that she was going back to work. Her recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, and Claire Branson had decided to start feeding the stray soldier who had saved her daughter's sanity.

He couldn't be there often; his attention to duty had already come under scrutiny by his commanding officers, and he had to be careful. They could not be seen together in public; with the war raging in Dublin and what had already happened to Maire, and just last week to her brother Tom, it would have painted a target on his back. Michael might tolerate this particular British soldier in his home, but Michael knew the story, knew how Maire had been and how she was now because of this man's determination. The rest of the IRA had no such tolerance, and many were hotheads who tended to shoot first and ask later.

Evan had another reason for concern— Lieutenant Robert Martin was missing. Evan had not shared this information with Maire; the army did not want it known, but the circumstances of his disappearance were suspicious. Martin was not well-liked, and except for a tight group of cronies even the other officers tended to give him a wide berth. The lieutenant's comrades claimed to know nothing; they insisted that he had simply disappeared in December while on patrol somewhere in the countryside. Searches had proved fruitless, but until he was found Evan could not feel that Maire would ever be safe.

So Evan Langdon took his dinner at Murphy's Pub as often as he could, and stopped by the Bransons' if he was not on duty at the army medical center. Always under cover of darkness, always looking over his shoulder. It was no way to live, and certainly no way to love. Because Evan was in love, he realized with dazzling clarity…in love with an Irish republican. So he did what he had to do to see her as often as he could, and to keep watch over her.

Maire had stopped wearing the wig weeks ago. Her hair was growing out, curling around her face and lending her a pixie look that Evan found endearing. No one seemed to think it odd that she had suddenly cut her beautiful hair so short—she was Maire Branson, they shrugged. She still flinched when a British uniform came through the door…unless it was Evan. She continued to plunk his drinks down in front of him with a glare, but before she turned away he was treated to a wink…if no one was watching.

Maire wasn't sure how she felt about Evan Langdon. She enjoyed his company. She was grateful beyond reckoning for what he had done; but at the same time she felt beholden to him, and that rankled. She didn't want to owe him. She didn't want to feel drawn to his lovely eyes, and she most definitely did not want to feel this stirring in the region of her heart…or any other regions. But you couldn't always have what you wanted, could you?

April 4, 1920

The Branson Flat

Edith ran her finger over the bare skin of Patrick's chest. I am a wanton woman, she thought in delight. I have given myself to a man who is the exact opposite of everything I am supposed to want…and I feel better than I have ever felt in my life. Who would ever have guessed that such a thing was possible? She hadn't been looking for this; it was a bizarre and wonderful feeling to find yourself dead center of a target you weren't even aiming for, and to know it was right.

Patrick stirred and opened his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that looked straight into her soul and found it worthy. He grinned, a lopsided Branson grin that melted her heart and left her breathless. She suspected that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and it made her blush.

Patrick watched the color come up in Edith's face. She was so beautiful when she was flustered. She was always beautiful, graceful as a swan and elegant as a—well, as an aristocrat—but he liked her best this way…her curls out of their customary pins, her face devoid of makeup, her clothing…off. He reached for her, pulling her down on top of him, whispering nonsense as he kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She came to him as if for the first time…as if she had been waiting a lifetime for this moment, for this man. And when he took her, she was complete.

Later they drank wine and sat in front of the fire, wrapped only in a quilt. It was as if they had been marooned together on a deserted island, just the two of them with no hope of rescue—or of discovery. And that much was true. They had had the flat to themselves for almost a week; since Tom's near fatal encounter with the Black and Tans, Sybil had been staying around the clock at the Mater. She had stopped by on Tuesday for some necessities, had apologised to her sister for abandoning her and told her that Tom's mother and sisters would love to see her as often as she could visit. Edith had not gone once.

They had told no one of their relationship, not yet. It wasn't that they were frightened of the reaction such an announcement would induce…well, not entirely…but everything was still so new with them, so magical, and as long as it was a secret it belonged only to them. It could not last, of course, but for now they were like children playing house. Living a fairy tale.

Edith sighed. Tom would be in hospital for at least three more days, and then he would be home recuperating for another week. Of course she was glad that he was on the mend, but he would be…underfoot. She giggled. Underfoot in his own home…but still…the idyll would be over; they would be back to snatching moments here and there, or pretending to be friends over dinner at the Bransons'. She supposed she should stop moaning and enjoy the rest of this stolen week while they had it.

Patrick's hands were doing something under the quilt—something quite lovely. Edith looked into his innocent blue eyes, smiled, and then put her arms around him and rolled them both off the couch and onto the hearthrug. Entangled in the quilt, they explored some very enthusiastic activities in its enveloping folds, activities involving arms and legs and tongues and lips, laughing until they couldn't breathe. With such strenuous and noisy exercise going on, it was understandable that they would be unable to hear the door opening, or the footsteps, or the gasp at the door to the sitting room.

"Oh! What…oh…my God! Edith?" Edith poked her head out of the quilt to see her sister Sybil standing in the doorway, a look of absolute astonishment on her face.

"Um…oh…hullo." Edith stammered, her face red as a summer tomato. Another head emerged from the blanket.

"Hi, Sybil," said Patrick. He gave his sister-in-law his best smile—the one he saved for near-death situations. "You're home. That's grand."


A/N: Athough there were some large scale engagements between the IRA and the RIC/British troops in Ireland, the Irish War Of Independence consisted primarily of guerrilla warfare: attacks and ambushes by one side or the other, followed by reprisals. In the month of December 1919 alone, Constable Edward Bolger was killed in an ambush as he walked unarmed to his barracks, an assassination attempt against British General John French left one IRA volunteer dead and three RIC men injured, and at least two British soldiers were killed by the accidental discharge of colleague's rifles. It is not then so surprising that Lieutenant Martin could disappear without a trace.

Pronunciation Guide:

Maire - my + ra