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  Merrion Square was one of Dublin’s finest addresses, hands down, and it was there that Tom Kelly directed the driver to take him. The large Georgian square was surrounded by museums and brick townhouses with wrought-iron balconies, ivy growing up the brick, bright front doors crowned by segmented fanlight windows, and commanding brass door knockers. Prosperous Dubliners had lived here since John Ensor laid out the square in 1762; the Kellys had moved in a quarter-century later.

  Three townhouses along the north side formed Dublin’s Kelly stronghold. They all had sea serpent door knockers—the same image engraved on Tom’s gold crest ring, that of the legendary sea monster said to have risen from the deep to protect Tadhg Mor O’Kelly, Tom’s fierce kinsman who fell “fighting like a wolf dog,” defending Ireland against the Vikings in the Battle of Clontarf in 1014.

  Tom shook his head. One hour in Dublin and he was already lost in the ancient history of another millennium. Or, more to the point, another decade. Climbing the stairs of the middle house, the one with the bright red door, he felt exhausted by his journey. His knock was answered by a maid as Elizabeth Kelly, his cousin William’s wife, came charging down the stairs.

  “Tommy, you’ve arrived already!” she exclaimed. “Billy’ll be beside himself. Why didn’t you tell us your flight so we could’ve sent a car?”

  “Liza, hello. I didn’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said, hugging her.

  “Your first visit here in twenty-three years, and you think we wouldn’t want to welcome you in Kelly style?”

  “Oh, you know me,” he said, smiling at her warmth, happy to see her again. “I like things simple.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I remember. No fancy airs about you, not like your cousins Billy and Sixtus and Niall and Chris and the rest of them. You’ve spared yourself hearing about the latest Mercedes, but not for long. Billy’ll be home soon enough, and he’ll show you his toys. Clara, take Tom’s bag up to his room now.”

  Tom gave the young maid a glance, shook his head to let her know he’d carry it himself. Liza either didn’t notice or decided not to care.

  “Where’s Bernie, now?” she asked.

  “She’s staying with the Sisters.”

  “No,” Liza said, her face falling. “Even on a vacation, they force her to stay in the convent?”

  Tom nodded, not really having the heart to explain that Bernie didn’t take vacations, and that in any case this was far from a vacation.

  “Darn it,” Liza said. “I was counting on spoiling her the way she spoiled us the last time we visited Star of the Sea. I still dream of that bed, with its view over the vineyard to the Sound. And the fresh flowers she brought every day…She’s certainly kept it a showplace; your great-grandfather would be so pleased with her.”

  “Yes, he would,” Tom said, although he wasn’t sure of that at all.

  “Well, I must tell you,” Liza said, her eyes sparkling, “when we heard the two of you were coming, we couldn’t have been more pleased. All of us. Sixtus and Emer, Niall and Isobel, as well as Billy and myself. Emer, though…she was a little confused.”

  “About what?” Tom asked.

  “Well, the part about you traveling together. She said nuns weren’t allowed to go places with men, but we all assumed that since you’ve known each other so long, and you work for her and all, that would be the special exception to the rule. Which is why we thought Bernie would be staying here.”

  “Ah,” he said. He should have known that the family gossip mill would be churning. He shook his head, hoping the dim hall light would hide the flush he felt spreading up his neck.

  “Well, Emer had it wrong. That’s all. Tommy, you must be dead on your feet. Clara, where’d you go?” She stared down at his bag, sitting in the middle of the floor, then looked around for the maid with no small degree of panic. But Tom put his hand on her wrist, stopped her.

  “It’s okay, Liza,” he said. “Let me get that. Is it the same guest room? On the second floor?”

  “Yes, Tom. The Blue Room, we still call it.”

  He kissed her cheek, and started up the stairs before she could offer the lift. These narrow townhouses were tall and steep, with just two rooms on each floor. The flights were different than in the States. Here in Ireland, he had to remember that the first floor was called the ground floor, and the second floor was called the first floor, and the third floor was called the second, and so on. In any case, by the time he reached the third flight, his thighs burned from climbing so many stairs, and he relished the feeling. His body felt ready to explode with pent-up energy.

  When he passed the laundry room, he smiled to see a treadmill in there beside the ironing board. Tom and his cousins were at that age when they had to start taking care of the Kelly heart—especially with all the fine dining and drinking his cousins probably did. Living at the Academy, tending the grounds, gave Tom a constant workout.

  Closing the Blue Room’s door behind him, he stood at the window, gazing out at the square. The Convent of Notre Dame des Victoires wasn’t visible. It was blocks away, but Tom saw it in his mind’s eye. He wondered what Bernie was doing, whether she had decided to confide in Sister Anne-Marie or not. He wondered whether she had encountered the Mother Superior yet, and if so, whether she had managed to keep her emotions in check.

  He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cool glass windowpane. If he stood very still, he could block out Dublin and almost see the words scratched into the stone of the Blue Grotto back at home, on the Academy grounds. I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil.

  He sighed, shaking his head.

  “Bernie,” he said.

  And then, because he was worn out from his flight and everything else, he kicked off his shoes and lay down on top of the blue bedspread, and tried to sleep.

  Two

  From an administrator’s point of view, staying in an urban convent was interestingly different from Star of the Sea. The narrow house was much smaller, for one thing, three floors to house twenty-five nuns. There were no grounds to speak of, or maintain: only a small dark garden in back, with two benches and a gravel path among thick shrubbery, and a small shrine against the wall, overgrown with ivy.

  At home in Connecticut, Bernie often started her day with a long walk through the vineyard to the beach, praying as she walked, gathering the night’s sorrows and dreams, offering them to the sea and the setting stars.

  Here she had heard Dublin’s night sounds—trucks rumbling along the quays, people laughing and talking on their way home from somewhere. In the middle of the night, she was awakened by a couple fighting on the street, the woman sobbing noisily and the man saying roughly, “Stop that. I’ve heard enough about that now. Stop it.”

  She was awake after that, and didn’t even try to get back to sleep. Her cell was in the front of the house—very similar in layout to her one at home: a narrow bed, a desk and chair, a bureau, a cross on the wall. She pulled the desk chair close to the window, sat in the dark staring out at Dublin.

  The city at night was alive and electric, in a different way than the grounds at Star of the Sea. Back home there were hunting foxes, owls, raccoon, deer, even the occasional coyote. At night the bay was still, but beneath the surface swam blues, stripers, fluke, crabs, and the rare shark. Stars wheeled through the sky, and the moon trickled its golden light over the sea, beach, and acres of grapevines. When Bernie woke up from a dream, or because an owl had cried in the night, she would look out the window and find his star. And say a prayer for him.

  Here, he was everywhere. She couldn’t find his star, because the city lights obscured the night sky. And she couldn’t say a prayer for him, because it seemed inadequate. A prayer said at night into the abyss—for what, after all this time? Back home, he was an idea. A distant memory, a fervent hope, a star in the sky’s cradle.

  Here, he was in her bloodstream. He was in every breath. Each voice she heard on the street was his. He was the man yelling at the woman, a
nd the woman crying in anguish.

  Bernie’s skin hurt. She sat in the straight-backed chair, gazing onto the dark street, her insides quivering. Her body ached, especially her skin. Suddenly she felt as if she had been living on the surface all this time. Running a convent and school took all her energy and effort, kept her too busy and occupied to think much. Her skin had become her armor, keeping danger out and keeping herself in.

  The bell rang for Vigils—a quick electric trill. At home, Sister Gabrielle rang an old brass bell by hand. This was a city convenience—bells rang at the push of a button. Bernie glanced at the clock: three-fifteen. She dressed in the dark, something she was very good at. Underwear, stockings, habit, veil.

  Back home her cell was at the far end of the convent—Tom’s great-grandfather’s sprawling pile of a mansion—and it took her ten minutes to get to chapel. But here, all she had to do was step into the hall and descend a flight of stairs. She took the extra time to stand by the window and stare down at the street.

  Any single person passing by…

  She saw a couple walking past—they looked about the right age. They laughed, and the girl stumbled. In the streetlight’s glow, Bernie saw him catch her in his arms. He steadied her with a kiss, and they kept going. Bernie watched as long as she could, until they disappeared out of the light, rounding the corner of the side street.

  A soft knock sounded on her door. She opened it, saw Anne-Marie standing in the hall, and let her in.

  “Good morning, Sister,” Bernie said.

  “Good morning to you. Did you sleep well?”

  “I’m not used to city life,” Bernie said.

  “Ah, yes,” Anne-Marie said. “We’re right smack in the midst of a well-worn path between Temple Bar and Parnell College.”

  “Temple Bar?”

  “You know, that section along the river where the kids go at night,” Anne-Marie said. “Bars and clubs—don’t you remember from once-upon-a-time? I hope they didn’t keep you awake all night.” She gave her old friend a long, searching look, as if she knew the noise wouldn’t have been the main reason for her sleeplessness.

  “I’ll be fine,” Bernie said, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

  “I couldn’t help notice that Sister Eleanor didn’t come down for supper or compline last night,” Anne-Marie said. “Did she find you?”

  Bernie shook her head. “When I saw Sister Theodore at supper, I was sure Eleanor would make an appearance. Are they still the Notre Dame mafia?”

  Anne-Marie chuckled. “Absolutely. Sister Eleanor is so busy running the convent, she never seems to have time for choir. That’s why you didn’t see her last night. Sister Theodore is Eleanor’s consigliere, that’s for sure. She’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “She made me one,” Bernie said quietly.

  “Well, I’m sure Eleanor will want to see you today.”

  Bernie nodded, stood straight in spite of the shiver running down her spine. “I’m sure,” she agreed.

  They went into chapel, joining the other sisters at silent prayer. Bernie knelt in the choir stall they’d assigned her last night. She bowed her head, picturing his star, saying the prayer she would have said at home. A moment later, all gathered, they began to chant the psalmody. Bernie hadn’t lost her place—they were on the same sequence as Star of the Sea.

  The Irish voices were so beautiful and melodic, they lifted her heart, and it needed lifting. She had come to Ireland for an impossible reason. Anyone with a brain would try to talk her out of it. She believed in the Holy Spirit, in deep mysteries, in the ways life had of taking care of people, leading them to their own solutions and comforts. For so many years, she had given him to God—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. She’d given him to Mary, because of her special connection.

  All these years, she had trusted in God’s love to protect him. Why then, if her faith was so strong, was she here now? Why had she come all this way, now that he was all grown-up, with a life all his own? What reason could there possibly be?

  This summer had been filled with powerful gifts. Her brother John had returned home to his family in Connecticut, her sister-in-law Honor had opened her heart to forgive and understand and take him back. Her nieces—eccentric, troubled, daring angels, all three of them—had each found private healings. And Brendan McCarthy—her niece Agnes’s red-haired nurse—had somehow unlocked a chamber of Bernie’s heart that had for so long been darkly asleep.

  Heavy thumping sounded in the hall. Ba-boom, ba-boom. Sister Theodore’s footsteps were unmistakable, and her voice, chanting the psalm as she approached, was stentorian; the combined effect somewhere between the Second Coming and Hannibal crossing the Alps by elephant. And where Sister Theodore was, Sister Eleanor Marie could not be far behind.

  Sister Theodore stood in the chapel door. Folds of skin protruded over the white wimple enveloping her face. Her breathing was labored, but she still had the voice of an opera singer. It harmonized with the other nuns’ sweet, gentle tones, somehow elevating them to the level of angels and art. Her eyes were blank, as if she had only enough beauty in her soul for one thing—it all went to her voice.

  A shadow fell across the door as Sister Theodore stepped aside for the Mother Superior of Notre Dame des Victoires.

  Entering chapel, the Superior looked left and right, derision in her bright eyes, as if she could see straight into each nun’s soul, only to find it sorely wanting. She was five-eight, rail thin, and filled with kinetic energy. She didn’t sing. Her mouth was a thin line. Her gaze swept the choir stalls, found its mark. And for the first time in twenty-three years, Sister Eleanor Marie locked eyes with Sister Bernadette Ignatius.

  Eleanor walked straight over, passed her a note. Bernie nodded, continuing her chants, not looking at the paper until Eleanor had marched out the chapel’s back door. No one knew better than Bernie how much effort it took to keep a convent running smoothly, but even so, she made a point to never miss choir.

  It calmed and centered her, reminded her of her connection with this earth as well as her longing for heaven. The psalms were filled with joy and grief, passion and longing, deep sorrow for roads taken and untaken. They were songs of love and despair, asking for help. Bernie had always known that she needed help.

  More than most people, she suspected.

  In a way, she felt sorry for Eleanor, depriving herself of this time, this chance to sing and chant her heart out. But then, maybe Eleanor hadn’t made the mistakes Bernie had.

  Unfolding the note, she read: See me in my office after breakfast.

  Bernie stared at the words for a few seconds. The words reminded her of something a stern nun would write a misbehaving pupil. That was probably how Eleanor still saw her. Bernie had been summoned. But, in a way, wasn’t that what she had come for? Sticking the note into her prayer book, she sang.

  The Greencastle Hotel was located on Bannondale Road, in Dublin’s Ballsbridge section. All the powerful people from the States, as well as from Europe and the U.K., came to stay here. They hustled into the bright brick hotel, stopping by the concierge desk to inquire about tickets to the Abbey or Gate theaters, or excursions to Glendalough or Powerscourt—even across Ireland to the Dingle Peninsula or the Cliffs of Moher. That’s where Seamus came in. Dressed in his black suit, standing by the silver Mercedes, he was ready to whisk the rich people anywhere their hearts desired. Even if it was just the airport.

  Today, for example. Although it was just past seven a.m., he had already taken a fare to the airport for a London flight, and now he was back at the hotel, waiting for his next assignment. The morning air was crisp and bright. He knew he could be assigned to a businessman who’d want to be driven to Four Courts, and then to lunch on Dawson Street, and then to offices downtown, and then back to the hotel. But he sorely hoped that wouldn’t be the case. On a day like this, he really hoped he’d get a couple, or a family, or someone wanting to be taken to see the sights.

  Just then a brand-new black Me
rcedes S-Class sedan pulled up, and the doormen flocked to open all doors. Seamus knew instantly—it was the Kellys. Very few locals rated that sort of attention here, short of Bono or the Edge or Enya or Mary Robinson or football stars like Dessie Farrell and Colin Moran.

  Sixtus Kelly was a prominent barrister, Niall was a judge, and William was a politician. Seamus had dreams of entering King’s Inns one day, to become a barrister himself, so the Kellys were of great interest to him. He hoped someday to be working for the likes of them; that’s what this job was all about. Earning enough money, and making connections.

  Watching the three Kelly brothers standing under the portico, laughing and talking, he noticed they had someone with them. The man was tall and thin, but didn’t look anything like the Kellys. He wore country clothes, nice enough, but on the shabby side. A tweed jacket, black jeans, scuffed boots. He looked like a farmer, in all honesty. What the Kellys were doing with him here was beyond Seamus. The man looked as if he belonged in the stables of one of their country houses.

  As the Kelly clan disappeared into the hotel, John, the chief valet, came over to introduce Seamus to his fare: an American woman, late forties, wanting to go on a tour of Wicklow. Seamus’s mind was already clicking: he’d show her Dalkey on the way, then Powerscourt, Enniskerry, the military road, and wind the morning up at Glendalough.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said, holding the door for her.

  As they drove away from Bannondale Road, he started his tour by taking her down the street lined with Dublin’s biggest houses, many of them embassies, but some still reserved for private families. He knew a few Kellys lived here, the ones who didn’t reside on Merrion Square.

  “This is Post Code Dublin 4,” he said, glancing around with pride, knowing that someday, when he became a barrister and found his true love, they would return here to live. “The best. Very aspirational. When you make it in the world, you want to live on Shrewsbury Road….”