Jane,

It is done. It is over. The man I once was is dead, now—and I am standing in his place.

There are so many words I have, to tell you. So many moments, and thoughts. How can I write of them all? I can’t. I will keep most of them inside me—or I shall, for now. I will tell you of them, when I can see your face, and have you by my side. Perhaps we can walk in our gardens after rain, so that the air smells of earth and wetness, which is how all of Ireland smells to me. Perhaps we can sit, you and I, on the bench beneath the willow tree, and I can tell you how I lifted up the large and fearsome file from the blacksmith’s forge and tucked it underneath my coat. He had many files. I trust he’ll not miss it—or I hope he does not. “Thou shalt not steal,” Jane—but also what of the Psalms, which the moths have eaten in your Bible? “Who is like the Lord our God, the One who sits enthroned on high, who stoops down to look on the Heavens and the earth? He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes, and the princes of their people” (Psalm 113:5–9)—and am I not His servant? Is she not in need?

She speaks of love being all that truly matters. Love is the heart of faith, I think.

If I took from the blacksmith, I gave to the gaoler. Love, for him, is whisky—he has always smelt of it, and spoken like it’s in his veins. So I gave him a bottle—as thanks, for his help, over these past weeks—and as soon as I left him, I heard him uncork it, and drink. It was the strongest I could find. It would lead him to a stupor, if not to proper sleep.

Who is this man in me, who did such deeds?

Corrag was so wide-eyed, when I found her. She sat by the bars, waiting, and we were quiet for a time. She spoke of her death. She held my hand, and was brave, Jane—so brave, in her talking. She did not rage, or curse the world, and I thought, as I sat with her, she has never asked for help. She has never asked for me to write to Stair, or get her out.

I gave the file to her.

I will speak of her expression when I see you—to see yours. But perhaps, you can imagine it. She looked at the file and looked in my eyes, and I saw a thousand things in her little face. As she filed at her chains, her hair dropped down about her, and I thought of your hair, then. How it curls, at its ends. My love, through all of this, I thought of you.

The chains broke. Corrag held them, briefly, in both hands. She looked upon them, felt them, and I think she said goodbye in that small moment—a farewell to her chained, tollbooth life.

I hated her, once—didn’t I? I wanted her burnt, and gone. But tonight, when she tried to fit between the bars, I said push, and turn, and I wanted her out. I pulled her arm, and twisted her. I tried to press the bars aside—but she shook her head, stepped back. Try again, I said, but she could not slip through, and so I said try again very sharply. And then? Next? I saw her close her eyes. I saw her take hold of her other wrist, and tug, and there was a sound, Jane—a pop, a tongue’s click. Her shoulder rose up. It shifted high, and over—like a wing. Her mouth was wide. She longed to scream in pain, I think, and she came towards the bars with this new shape of hers. She bit her lip. She held her breath, shifted through. And when Corrag fell against me, she was so light and so warm—like a cat, or a bird. Then, a second pop. A frail mewl came out, and I saw her eyes were wet. But she was standing by me, and was human-shaped again.

She wiped her nose, and looked at me.

I carried her out. I stepped over the gaoler who was talking in his sleep, and I carried her out without holding her: I bore her, with her fingers grasping tightly to my clothes, and her legs fixed very tightly about my body, and I held my cloak about me with my hands on such a night—such a wet, unruly night. I carried her. I walked up into the streets, feeling this life clinging to me, her face against my chest, those fingers clutching on, and when I passed others I hoped they only saw a man in a buttoned coat, hurrying home at such an hour, and in such rain. I hurried. I looked down. When I came to the chestnut cob by the inn I mounted very gently, and I heard a small whimper against me, as if I had leant upon her.

The cob had new shoes, and two weeks of rest. He took us well.

And I rode, and thought what is this? What life is this? My heart beat so strongly I thought it may burst—as if she was clutching to it, and might pull that organ out. My lungs breathed very quickly, and my back ached, and I thought how are these hands mine, and these legs mine? I had our daughter’s ghost with me, Jane—and I rode, thinking of you.

By a cold line of trees, I slowed the horse.

Inverary was behind us, and the smell was wet pines, wet horse, wet earth. And it was there that I set Corrag down.

For a moment, she stayed as she was. In the heavy rain, she stood with her arms held up, and fingers bent, and her eyes were tightly closed as if she was afraid to open them, and see. But she opened them. She brought her arms down, and she filled herself up with rainy air, and looked about herself, and blinked, and I will not forget that, Jane.

What words will I use, in our garden? When I speak of that moment? I don’t know. I don’t have the ways to speak of it, yet. We looked upon each other. Her hair was wet against her face. She took my hands, then. She held them, and did not say a single word to me—but what a look was on her. It was grace, and wisdom. She pressed my hands, let go of them, and that was her thanks.

She ran. My last sight of her was her ragged skirts, and hair. I stood by the trees. I stood for a long time, until my horse shook its mane, and all her tiny footprints had been filled washed away by the rain.

I will leave, now. It is nearly dawn, and when the sky is lighter I will remount, and go. Appin is not far, and I will be welcome there. I will whisper Jacobite. Perhaps I’ll say her name.

What follows, I cannot say. A half-drunk gaoler may stagger in the streets and say she is gone! Flew away! Perhaps they will find another soul to burn for some other deed, or burn it anyway. If they try to chase the Irishman who went to her, each day, they will chase a ghost—for Charles Griffin has fled. Like a dream, or like magick, he has slipped away.

Jane. My love. I hope you read this letter, fold it, and place it on your lap with a small, true smile. I hope you are proud of this man—who thought to serve God, but who knows, now, that the best way to serve Him is to serve all others well.

Daily, I have missed you. But you are in all beauty, which keeps you near me.

I am coming to you. Imagine me, walking up the path to our door. Look out of the window every day, and picture it—me, with my spectacles and calf-leather bag, the pink roses by the window in full bloom—and one day, one day, the picture will be true.

On to Appin, and to serving the world. And on, on, on with loving you.

Charles