I know of a great deal of things that can end life, yet none seem to be as fatal as hope. It is much like fire that way—it possesses the ability to render every other detail inconsequential. Perhaps it is for the best that I don't often have a chance to wield it. My companion looked to the rising of the sun with surprising vigour. The forthcoming venture into town had brought with it hope enough to burn through the flood of guilt that came with every bloodied garment. The wrens had long since switched roles from palm-sized annoyance to bearers of good news. Their obnoxiously loud calls beckoned her to step into the light once more. I knew not if she would take to Aoife the way I expected she would, but for now, the girl would suffice—she could be the shiny new trinket that would keep my charge going for a few years more, at the very least. With the clothes soon washed and done, the red-haired one rose, brushing the twigs and dirt off her gown as she did so. It was well past noon, but it didn't seem to matter. As one with purpose, she walked the trail of emptiness. She did not run as a child would, nor was there a spring in her step, but her eyes roamed the nearing roads, unabashedly searching for a certain fair-haired girl.

My companion hadn't the faintest clue where to look for the girl. That she wouldn't be home was near certainty; surely, Aoife wouldn't stay cooped in the little house when there was sunlight the children undoubtedly desired? We had only made it back to the thick of town when we spotted her amidst a throng of other children who looked severely chastised and as though they'd rather be facing anyone else. Their eyes flitted this way and that, now meeting those of a playmate and then looking into the distance.

"It's alright," Aoife was saying, opting to look at her toes and restless fingers. Judging by the flush on her cheeks, she had not expected them to stop her. While she mumbled her acceptance of their apologies, I didn't doubt she meant it; her eyes held neither hate nor anger for them. It has always been in a child's nature to forgive quickly, but at the verge of adolescence, Aoife must've been kind by anyone's standards to have forgiven them without a single word of scorn. Perhaps they really had done little harm. Why, they looked far from guilty, but it was exactly for that reason that I held them accountable. They all eyed her with various degrees of distaste as they gauged their surroundings in apprehension, as though someone would reprimand their behaviour.

With the 'apology' out of the way, the children resumed their play and talk, quickly making themselves scarce. Aoife, for her part, bid the others a good day and headed into the baker's shop that was further down the street. The aroma of scones and soda bread briefly floated downwind as the door opened, a welcome change from the dust. With most other treats sent off to the British armies and markets, the breads were the only commodity to be found in comparative abundance. His face lined by the many years, the baker handed her a flapjack, his eyes crinkling with a smile as he gazed fondly upon her. Buyers were few and far between, leaving the middle-aged man content to keep the company of a little girl.

"Children these days are up to no good, I swear! Nothing for them, should they come by!"

Aoife merely laughed at his mock rage, her hands sticky from the snack she'd been handed. Even she knew he did not mean the threat; he gave treats out to any child who visited his shop—especially if they belonged to the families that traditionally grew potatoes. He would much rather give away his goods for less than they were worth if it kept another child from going hungry.

"Uncail?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you tell da?"

The man pretended to think deeply, though one would think the gleam in his eye would give the farce away.

"I won't tell no lies if he asks... but I shan't tell him myself."

That seemed to satisfy her. Her slender eyebrows furrowed so deeply they could stick to each other; her face was stuck in an unflattering pout. It was as though everyone needed to know she was thinking. Finally, she nodded. "Alright. You do not visit anyways, so I will be in no trouble."

A small pause.

"Why don't you and Aintín ever come by?"

For the first time all day, the smile on the baker's—Oisín's—face slipped into a straight line. "You know how she gets about these things, Aoife. She insists—"

The creak of an opening door saved him from having to answer. "Nolan, my lad! Come, come, I have good news to share."

It was almost funny just how different their reactions were. The girl stiffened almost instantly at the sight of the dark-haired man at the door. His hazel eyes looked her over with concern, but she simply refused to meet them. Fixed to the tiny ants scrambling across the cracked floor, she quickly jumped to her feet, her voice coming out as a squeak. "Goodbye, uncail Oisín!"

"Ai! Wherever are you headed to in such a hurry?"

"Home," she rushed out as she hurried towards the door, which Nolan held open for her. "Da will be looking for me."

"So soon?" Oisín inquired as he quickly packed a few more shortbreads and flapjacks to take with her. Despite her obvious discomfort, she couldn't find it in herself to forget her manners. "Yes," she said shortly. Stopping, she looked up at the cousin she seldom spoke to. "Thank you." And just like that, she'd fled.

It was plain to all four of us that it was Nolan's sudden appearance that unsettled her. He certainly looked apologetic about it, although not quite. The girl's flight had left two others equally restless.

"Wait," I told my companion as she made to follow Aoife. Her confusion was palpable, but staying would serve her purpose better. I knew these people, but she wouldn't. "Look... and listen."

"What am I looking for?"

"Patience, at the very least."

She huffed, continuing to look at the father-son pair who were now stood side by side as they sorted through the wares on display. The silence between them was finally broken by the younger of the two.

"You mentioned we have news?"

"Ah, yes! Good news, m'boy, I have good news!"

"As do I," said the man, smiling as he joined his father. "There are many in Longford who would pay good coin for the treats we sell."

"Yes," the baker agreed, "And Roscommon too, it would seem. We may yet make it past these tough times."

"Yes, if we keep our wits about."

"So that's what this is about?" Oisín asked, a drizzle of surprise lacing his voice.

"Aye. I don't think I've been forgiven for that. Was I too harsh, do you think?" He looked towards the door.

Their hands stilled as they looked at one another, one seeking answers and the other wondering how to provide them. "Perhaps. But love and fear... they make fools of us all. You are hardly 'round when she is here. And you did give her a bit of a fright. She will warm to you, lad. Give it—" Time. Oisín sighed deeply. Time was one luxury they no longer had. "She will come back, Nolan. Talk to her. Tell her your side of it. She is a good child, that one."

"Mother won't be happy about it. Not one bit."

"No, but she will get over it when we leave."

We did not stay to hear any more. My companion longed to be away, and her patience was wearing thin. The reds were starting to eat the blue sky as we caught up to Aoife. The girl dragged her feet, clearly dissatisfied with the idea of having to retreat into a lonely house earlier than she would have liked. She loved her father—there was no doubting that—but I suppose there were times she much desired the company of others her age.

Whispers followed her as she went: ladies gossipped, children pointed, but Aoife did not bat an eyelid. It is hard to believe a child's presence could cause such offence; it must have had something to do with why they lived at the edge of the town. It would definitely explain why Nolan's mother would take offence to them.

Aoife reached the house before the blues were lost. The gate, no taller than half a man, creaked open as she let herself in. The small basket of cookies and shortbread rested on her lap as she sat herself down by the locked door. Her chin rested on her hands, everything about her face and posture revealing she was easily bored. A stray flower became the victim of such boredom, ripped apart petal by petal as the girl waited for her father. The stalk was carelessly tossed away. My companion looked at me, unsure whether or not I should be accused of causing an indefinite delay, but I shook my head. "Maybe he simply doesn't believe." It was either that or desperation for work and coin that kept him outdoors after sundown.

As the first star appeared, so too did the man. Red-headed with a receding hairline, he did not look like his daughter overmuch, save for the jaded green of his eyes. The furrows on his face were deep-set, his shoulders slightly sagging as though bearing an unspeakable burden. The gleam that lit his eyes upon the sight of his only daughter, however, was unmistakable. Even weary from a day's work, he seemed to come to life anew as the girl rushed into his arms the moment he made it past the gate.

"Ah, Aoife," he mumbled as he hugged her, pulling her closer for a moment. "How was today, a stór? You are back early?"

"Fine." A doubtful pause. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she ran back towards the door, freeing herself from her father's embrace. "Uncail Oisín gave me some treats to bring with me. There's a whole basket of them!"

There it was, that pained smile over half the adult population perfects early on into parenthood. "He has been kind, hasn't he? Did you thank him?"

"Yes, daid! Of course I did!"

"Well, come along then," he said, unlocking the door. "I'm sure you're hungry for them."

Bloodshot eyes met my own. "She hides something from him."

"Yes. Didn't you, as a child?"

She turned sharply. Her eyes, widened enough to reveal irises the shade of jaded green, brimmed with accusation. "I've told you," she hissed after a few beats. "I don't remember anymore."

Few people could, when the years without recollection far outnumbered years with memory. Her name was a novelty she had forgone. Neither of us had any need for it, she more so than I when none would address her so. "They keep secrets, child. They all do. Perhaps you will hear some of them."

"What makes you say so?" There it was again: that spark of hope fighting to live amidst the storm. Do not kindle it, she seemed to say. Do not kindle another pyre for me. But there already was a pyre, wasn't there? She just did not know which one would be hers, if at all she did burn.

"You intend to watch her, do you not? Secrets are often shared under the moon's watch."

"Those hours I will never—it is past time, is it not? Why?"

The dawn will be no less apt for my task than the night. I do not favour one over another. They say death waits for none, don't they?

"There will be none tonight."

They are wrong.