The forest’s garish decorations were too much. Ned was still woozy at the closeness of the night, at the splintering of the morning. She pointed at the wattles, gripped his knee. He blinked at the bushy goldness. A sluggish buzzing started up beneath his skin. Somehow he piloted them down the muddy road. Somehow he got them to the car park; somehow he followed her past the trees and ferns and torrenting Liffey to the base of the falls. His steps fell slowly, strangely. He had never been so aware of another person’s body.

So when the river’s spray hit her skin and he felt her shake, he moved to keep that body safe. He pulled off his coat. And as he draped it over her shoulders, the memory was triggered. The other coat, the one he’d shivered into on that star-heavy night. The boat. The mad whale. His father, his brothers. The stillness of the estuary, so much bigger than the tumbling Liffey.

He saw his wife wade into the too-big sleeves of his coat, saw the wool envelop her frame, and the warm jolt that the sight zapped through made him remember: Toby had loved him. Had made that love clear, even if it was always wrapped in jokes and banter. Maybe Toby had been the one to lend him the coat that night on the boat, as they waited for the whale. Bill probably hadn’t even realised Ned was there. But under the stark light of the stars, Toby could have seen how Ned shivered, felt sorry for the little brother he loved and tossed his coat across the planks. Thinking of the scene this way made it seem possible, even likely. Ned tried to put his mind back in the boat, tried to remember that moment before the mad whale struck, tried to recall which direction the coat had come from.

As always, he saw only the night-dark river. Felt only the rip of his fear.

9

9

THE LETTER FROM Murmansk tied a knot within Maggie. In the days after its arrival she began shifting about the orchard in looser, slower movements. She spent more time in the sun. She lost interest in the chicken coop. She tinkered with the garden beds, then dragged a pitchfork through them. She stopped staying up to talk with their father in the evenings.

When Ned told her about the mare, she did not congratulate or thank him. She only wiped at her forehead and squinted at the window. ‘So she’ll live?’

‘She should.’

Still Maggie seemed unmoved. Ned’s hands found his pockets. He waited for her to realise the value of what he’d done, the independence and ingenuity of it. But she only asked if he was waiting for a medal and, before he could answer, left him in the house and moved out into the summer light.