Donal MacLaughlin pressed the side of his face against the damp exterior wall, his ears straining to hear the argument that would decide his fate. “Storm's too loud,” he said. “What are they saying?”

  “They’re trying to figure out what to do with us,” said his brother, Finn.

  “I knew that part. I was hoping that you had better luck hearing what they said.”

  The house belonged to a close friend of Donal's parents, a man he called “Uncle” Murrough. Murrough visited frequently despite the day-long trip it required. Donal’s parents in kind brought the boys across Tyrconnell several times a year to spend a week with the man.

  Donal's grandparents had long passed away and no extended family lived nearby. Murrough readily assumed any extended familial duties and responsibilities for the boys. Last week, those duties included helping the brothers lay their parents to an untimely rest.

  “Why is Mrs. MacSweeney here anyway?” Donal asked.

  “Her family still owns our land,” Finn said.

  “Don’t we get a say? Why would she take our home?”

  “She hasn’t done anything yet,” Finn said. “Have some trust in Murrough. Who knows? Maybe he’s the one taking us in.”

  “But I don’t want to leave our home! How can you be so calm?”

  “Do not mistake me for—”

  The front door opened. Murrough’s head emerged from the doorway.

  “Boys, can you join us inside?” the old man asked. He retracted his head within the house. Finn and Donal exchanged nervous glances as the door between them shut behind Murrough.

  Murrough’s wiry grey hair and white beard were the only hints of his advancing age. Aside from the crow’s feet beside his blue eyes and a few lines across his forehead, his face was unnaturally smooth. His spine had no hump, his gait did not shuffle. Finn was growing, but Murrough still stood a full head above him.

  Donal tucked in behind Finn as they made their way to the table. Murrough reclaimed his seat next to a short, middle-aged woman.

  Mrs. MacSweeney sat on the edge of her seat, spine rigid and facial expression soft. Despite being indoors, she kept on her red brat cloak trimmed in yellow. It draped over a leine shirt with a small ruffle around the collar. A thin bead collected at the bottom of her green eyes as she searched each boy’s face. Donal assumed she wanted necessary answers to bypass uncomfortable small talk.

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  Murrough spoke first. “Boys, none of us want to have this conversation so soon after, well…” He swallowed hard and relied on a swirling hand gesture to complete his thought. “But we have no choice. Decisions have to be made, and soon.”

  Donal leaned in, ready to pounce at the opportunity to speak, but a hand on his shoulder and a firm look from Finn kept him quiet.

  Murrough waited for the brothers’ eye contact to resolve before resuming. “In many cases,” he said, “children who lose both parents would become wards of someone in the village and work for them. Sometimes they stay together, sometimes split up. If the guardian’s in a trade, the children would become apprentices. That is, of course, if the children do not have family nearby. I’m not your blood, but I’ve known you both your whole lives. You have a place with me waiting for you; just say the word.”

  Donal squirmed in his seat and looked at Finn, volunteering the older brother to speak up.

  Finn nodded and leaned forward. “We can’t thank you enough for the offer, Uncle, but Donal doesn’t want to leave home.” His eyes shifted to the table. “I’d rather stay as well.”

  Murrough flashed Mrs. MacSweeney a glance.

  “You don’t have to apologize; I thought as much,” Murrough said. “Still, you’re seventeen years old, Finn. Old enough to know it’s not that simple.” He extended an open hand toward the widow. “Mrs. MacSweeney’s family owns the land. What happens next is as much her choice as it is yours.”

  The widow nodded at Murrough. “It’s never easy being where you boys are,” she said. “Two years Mr. MacSweeney’s been gone now, and the children still struggle. So here’s how it will be. As long as you pay your rent, everything’s grand. If you can’t pay on time, tell me in advance and we can make reasonable arrangements. That will be good enough for short periods.”

  She dipped her chin and raised her brows. “But I’m not your mam and I never will be,” she said. “If you two won’t do the required work, I’ll find someone who will. You’d have to leave your farm and move in here with Murrough.”

  “Finn, let’s be clear,” Murrough said. “Accepting this means you’d have to finish raising your brother while managing the farm. He’s still fourteen. Any plans you had for the friary in Moville will have to wait at least until Donal can make it on his own.”

  Finn looked at Donal long enough to force the younger brother to bow his head and close his eyes. Donal knew there was little chance Finn had taken the enormity of it all into account. His nose spent more time in books than in their dirt and it wouldn’t be two years before he’d be gone.

  Finn swallowed hard. Donal could hear the shakiness in his brother’s voice.

  Out with it, Finn, Donal thought to himself. It’s not your fault.

  “We can do it, sure,” Finn said.

  Silence stifled the room. Donal opened his eyelids and found Finn’s eyes locked on the widow’s face. Mrs. MacSweeney eyed each person in the room before she leaned back in her chair and sighed.

  “So it is,” she said, looking at Murrough.

  Finn shifted in his seat and straightened his spine. “We’re ready,” he said.

  “You’re not ready, in fact,” she said. “But you’re serious, and that’s enough for now. My daughter Siobhan will visit each month for the rent and to offer advice, if needed. A word as I walk to my wagon, Murrough?”

  Murrough gestured for the widow to lead as the elders stood. She patted the boys on the shoulders and bid them good-bye with a restrained smile before she exited the house. After the sound of hooves and wheels had faded, Murrough returned through the door and nodded.

  “That went better than expected. Let’s take your things back home.”