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    They were all still there, would stay there until someone came to tumble the house.
    “What did you say?” Garvey asked.
    Sean shook his head. In his head he began to count the books on the wall of the Englishman’s house. Suppose there were fifty on each shelf? Suppose there were ten shelves, twenty shelves?
    He couldn’t count that. He could do ten and ten, his fingers, his toes, twenty, the number of rocks that made up the low stone wall in front of his house.
    He was falling asleep again. And then the thought came to him as it had in the Englishman’s house. Suppose he could read what was in those books?
    “What?” Garvey asked.
    “Read,” Sean said, his tongue thick.
    “Ah, now,” Garvey said. “There are few that can do that.”
    “I know my name,” Sean said. “There’s an
S,
and an
E
.” He was too tired to remember the rest.
    He didn’t have to. Suddenly there was a grinding sound, as if the ship had struck something. The hatch cover was opened, and light streamed down on top of him.
    Blinding light.
    He closed his eyes against it.
    “We’re here,” Garvey said. “We did it.”
    Sean opened his eyes, blinking, and waited his turn to climb, wondering if his legs would hold him.
    Still he thought about the letters of his name and all the books in the Englishman’s house. He thought of Brooklyn and his family waiting for him: gentle Mary, Francey, Nory’s Maggie. And where were Mam and little Patch?
    If only they were safe somewhere.
    He promised himself he’d find them someday.
    He thought of books then. Someday he’d have a book for himself, too, and he’d be able to read it, one page after another.

TEN
    NORY
    Her mouth was dry. “Celia,” she called to her sister. “Just a cup of hot water from the hearth.”
    “Am I your servant then?” Celia asked.
    “I’ll sing you a song for a swallow of water.”
    “Do you think I have time for singing now?” But Celia held out the cup.
    As Nory reached for it a drop splashed onto her chin, and another onto her nose. “How can I sing if I’m drowning?” she asked.
    Celia was laughing. Nory could hear the sound of it, like the patter of soft rain at Patrick’s Well. She raised her hand to wipe her face, then opened her eyes.
    There was more water on her face now, and she wondered if she was crying. It was dark, and she turned her head to look at the banked fire in the hearth. After a moment she realized where she was.
    Not home with Celia.
    No hearth to spread its warmth.
    No Patch in the middle of their straw bed.
    She was alone, and the drops she felt on her face were drops of rain coming down into the shed without its roof. She opened her mouth to catch some of the water. It washed her cracked lips and ran down her throat, and she kept swallowing, feeling the thirst leaving her.
    She pulled some of the thatch around her, thinking about the food that was left: a mouthful of brack and that wee bit of dried meat. Should she eat now? There was a tapping somewhere in back of her eyes, so it was hard to think.
    She heard something, not the rain. She lay very still, listening. Was it the sound of geese honking?
    She sat up carefully. It almost sounded like the rough voice of a woman. A woman crying?
    Just the wind. Only the wind.
    She reached into the bag and took out the brack. She felt the hard crust in her fingers, the center slightly softer. She remembered Anna at the hearth swinging the pot over the fire, making brack. Before that it was her sister Maggie stirring the flour and water:
“Just so, Nory. Don’t work it too much, only enough to make a smooth round loaf.”
    Maggie in America.
    Nory took the tiniest bite of brack, saving the rest of it. She felt the bit of meat in the bag, and then the small bags of leaves and seeds Anna had given her. Leaves and seeds for cures.
    The thatch was damp and her clothes were cold and wet. It must be almost morning. She’d start now in the early darkness and get that much closer to the