Page 74 of The Song Rising

Ó Casaide pulled the peak of his cap slightly lower. “You got out a long time ago. I’m thinking you remember it as it used to be. The Emerald Isle.” He barked out a laugh. “What a load of shite.”

“I saw the Molly Riots. I was in Dublin.”

He was silent for some time.

“You left around 2048, I take it,” he finally said.

I nodded slowly.

“Just in time. After they hanged the last of the riots’ leaders, the remaining rebels went to one of four massive labor camps, one in each of the provinces of Ireland. Then they were joined by anyone with a strong back—anyone who wasn’t necessary to keep the country running in other ways. I was in the Connacht camp for four years, cutting down trees for nothing but bread.”

The words were going in, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I had known that most of the country was under Scion rule, except for pockets of rebel-held land, but I hadn’t thought it would be much different from how it was here. Anti-unnatural propaganda.No safer place.

“Took me far too long to escape. I reached the coast and stowed on board a ship carrying lumber to Liverpool. Then I made a living for myself here. For a time.”

He kept eating. The room was tilting on its head. They were using forced labor in Ireland, my homeland—bleeding it dry to fuel Nashira’s vision of a world ruled by Scion.

“I don’t understand,” I managed. “On ScionEye, they’ve always talked about ‘the Pale’. I thought—”

“You thought that was the only area Scion had full control over. It’s a nice lie they tell their denizens, so they can convince everyone that we brogues are violent. There is no Pale. Scion controls Ireland.”

The next question was one I shouldn’t ask. He was right; I shouldn’t taint my memories. I shouldn’t know. I should keep my childhood in a glass box, where nothing could stain it.

“Did you—” I stopped, then: “Did you ever hear of Feirm na mBeach Meala?”

“I didn’t.”

Of course he hadn’t. “It was a dairy farm in Tipperary. Family-owned,” I said, already knowing that he would shake his head. “The owners’ names were Éamonn Ó Mathúna and Gráinne Uí Mhathúna.”

“They would have lost it. Most family farms were merged into larger ones. Factory farms.”

My grandfather had always been opposed to factory farming. His animals had been treated gently.Quality over quantity, he’d told me once while he bottled milk.Rush the cow, spoil the cream. That farm had been their life; all they had worked for since they married in their teens.

“Thank you,” I said. “For telling me.”

“Not a bother.” The man patted my hand. “I wish you all the best of luck with what you’re trying to do, Paige Ní Mhathúna, but it’s best you don’t think about Ireland anymore. There’s a reason this cookshop is called by the name it is.” He turned away. “All of us left loved ones in the shadow.”

Manchester spun past the window, a mural of gray shapes against the sky. I sat in silence on the monorail.

The birthplace of my memory was gone. I should have known that Scion, traders in human flesh, would have no mercy on the children of Ireland. I pictured soldiers marching through the Glen of Aherlow, setting fire to everything they touched.

The wind scourged my face as I got off the train. My ribs felt broken, as if they could no longer hold my shape. I had left, and my grandparents had stayed. And it couldn’t be undone. Even if they weren’t dead, losing the farm would have killed them inside. I forced myself not to think of them dying in a camp, or trying desperately to live off the land.

I would become stone. For the people here, for my grandparents, for myself. I would shatter Scion, as they had shattered the country I loved, even if it took me every day of the rest of my life.

And Iwouldbegin here. No matter what the cost.

Darkness had fallen by the time I got back to Essex Street. The Red Rose was stifling and crammed with people, most of whom were engrossed in another icecrosse game and sporting waistcoats stamped withMANCHESTER ANCHORSorMANCHESTER CONQUERORS. When I’d forged a path through the elbows and backs, Hari beckoned me to the counter. I took the polystyrene cup of tea he handed me, along with the key to the safe house, and trudged up the stairs, leaving flecks of snow in my wake. Tom was waiting for me in the living room.

“Any luck, Underqueen?”

“Yes.” I took off my respirator. Beneath it, my hair was pasted to my forehead and nape. “Looks like we need to get into SciPLO Establishment B.”

I relayed to him what I had learned. He stroked his beard, eyes slightly narrowed.

“They’re going to great lengths to keep what happens in there a secret,” he said when I finished. “Why?”

“Senshield is Vance’s key weapon. She has to protect it,” I said. “AportableSenshield, especially, has to be kept secret—if the Vigiles had more than a suspicion that they were about to become obsolete, then Scion would be dealing with more than a few small-scale revolts. I think she wants to arm all the soldiers with the scanners, then axe the Vigiles.”

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