“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed, raising her fingertips to wipe away the wetness on her cheeks. “This poem. Did you read it? Don’t you see? Yeats doesn’t want you to fight here. Not for them—the British. He told your dad to give you this poem so you would know who the enemy actually is.”

Jimmy took the paper from Tara’s shaky hands. He read out loud, his brogue curling perfectly around the consonants. “‘MacDonagh and MacBride / And Connolly and Pearse.’ They were just some of the Irish the British executed for their supposed role in the Easter Rising. Some of them didn’t even do anything. All executed at Kilmainham Gaol. Connolly was tied to a chair when they shot him. On account of not being able to stand up. Bloody bastards.” Jimmy brought his hand to his mouth, then turned to Tara. “Forgive my language.”

The air grew quiet and heavy between them. Tara could hear their individual breaths, rising, falling, out of tune. Hers, deep and deliberate, like she was trying to ground herself, keep herself in this space and time. His, shakier, shallow, until at last he slowed himself down to match her.

He looked up from the floor to meet her eyes. Slowly, she reached toward him, and he took her hand in his. A flame leaped from her chest and threatened to set the entire berth on fire. But Tara sat still. And close, so close, to this boy. This soldier. She looked down at their hands—fingers interlaced. This was all impossible.

“‘Freedom from fear is the freedom / I claim for you, my Motherland.’” Tara’s voice was a whisper.

“Who said that?”

“Tagore. That’s from the book that Yeats wrote the introduction to.”

“Yeats might have written similar sentiments himself—he may still.”

“That’s because Tagore and Yeats wanted the same thing. Freedom to rule themselves. Yeats wants freedom for Ireland. He wants you to want it, too.”

“I do want it.”

“Then how can you wear their uniform, knowing that your brothers died for Ireland to be free? Just like Indians are dying for India to be free. You must see that, Jimmy. It’s such a simple and humble thing, isn’t it? To want to live free. To make mistakes. To fail sometimes, perhaps, but even for those failures to be your own.”

Jimmy nodded and looked down at his scuffed boots. Tara let out a small, tinkly laugh when she noticed a tiny sheen of bright orange syrup along his jawline. She raised her thumb to wipe it away. “Were you eating jalebis in the canteen? Is that why it took you so long to return?”

Jimmy turned his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “I wasn’t sure if you would be here when I returned. I was drowning my sorrows in Indian sweets.”

“I wasn’t sure I would be here when you returned, either.”

“Why did you stay?”