Wicklow Mountains, Ireland

May 24, 1798

I checked the harness on the draft horse, making sure it was secure for the trip down the mountains. "Calm down, Robbie," I said as he fed the old mare a carrot. Moving back, I made sure the cart was in good shape in the dim light after sunrise. A full load of charcoal piled under a tarp, ready for market, and a breakdown would be catastrophic. Philip Corcoran had a job to do, and I was going to do it well.

"Are you sure?" I could hear my Mother's voice from inside the house, a benefit of the werewolf hearing I had.

"We...