Free Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) by Jodi McIsaac

the tourism office, which she found on a map she’d snagged at the station. It was only a couple of blocks away. As she walked toward it, a large cathedral loomed on the right, just down the street. Behind it was a tall round tower that soared even higher than the cathedral spires. She checked the map. Saint Brigid’s Cathedral. Thomas had told her to talk to Brigid. Had he meant she should go to the cathedral? To pray to the saint? Or was there an actual woman here named Brigid who might have the information she was seeking?
    Saint Brigid of Kildare was one of Ireland’s patron saints. Nora’s ma had even hung a Saint Brigid’s cross above their doorway in Belfast. She’d loved Brigid above all the saints. Nora had never thought to ask why.
    She found the tourism office with little difficulty. A tall, thin man was just flipping over the “Open” sign. He smiled when he saw Nora approaching. “Good morning to you!” he called.
    “Good morning.”
    “Are you a visitor to our fine town, then?” the man asked, ushering Nora inside. The tourism office was tiny, not much more than a desk and a few shelves of maps and tourist kitsch.
    “I am. My first visit,” Nora said. “I’m doing a bit of . . . research, and I was wondering if you might help me.”
    “Of course! We get a lot of amateur historians in here. Kildare has a long, proud history. If you’re wanting to take one of our walking tours, my nephew Oisín—”
    “Actually, I’m trying to find out more about this man.” She showed him the picture of Thomas. “Someone told me he might have a connection to this town.”
    “Hmm, well, I can’t say I recognize him,” he said. After flipping over the photo, he peered down at it through his bifocals. “Thomas Heaney, so it says. A relative of yours?”
    “I don’t think so. I was told to look for a woman named Brigid. Do you know of anyone by that name?”
    He laughed. “Besides our precious saint, you mean! I know of a couple Brigids, but I don’t think they’ll know who this young man is, if that’s what you’re thinking. What kind of research are you doing?”
    “Um . . . Civil War.”
    He shook his head and frowned. “A sad time for Ireland, that was. There are a few local history groups that might be able to help you better.” He shuffled around behind the desk and pulled out a printed list. “Here are their names and contact information. They meet on various nights of the week. But if you ring one of these numbers, they might be able to help you out. How long are you here for?”
    “Good question,” Nora answered. “Until I find what I’m looking for, I suppose.”
    “Do you have a hotel already?”
    “No, but I’ve got one back in Dublin.”
    “Well, here’s a list of some of our recommended accommodations.” He handed Nora another handmade brochure. “And here’s some information about the cathedral, the tower, and the holy well.”
    “Is the cathedral open now?” Nora asked.
    “Yes, it should be. Just cross the street, and you’ll see the entrance gates straight ahead.”
    “Ta.”
    Nora stuffed the papers into her purse and stepped back out into the sun. Was Thomas Heaney buried in the church graveyard? The thought made her shiver. If he was truly dead, how could he speak to her?
    A stone fence, as tall as Nora, was built around the cathedral, but the iron gate in front was open. A silver car was parked on the gravel patch outside the church door, above which was carved a skull and crossbones. Odd. Nora gave it a sidelong glance, then veered left into the graveyard.
    She tried to make out the names on the stones. It was near impossible on most of them, and those that she could read were not the final resting markers for Thomas Heaney. She sat down on a smooth, low, rectangular stone wall that, according to the plaque, marked the site of Saint Brigid’s Fire Temple. Candles, flowers, and prayer cards had been placed against the back wall.
    Without warning, a flame