Years had passed since she’d set foot in the room on the third floor. She stood there trembling as a frosty November sun dawned. It cast a silver brilliance that sparkled and reflected off a crystal necklace she’d nailed to the window frame forty years ago. The sun shone through the crystal, bringing rainbows of colors. A draft of cold air made them flicker and move about the musty room in the farm house her father, Jim Murray, had built in 1825.

The oil lamp she carried reflected eerie shadows on the things inside—a dress form, a leather trunk, and a rocking chair with one arm. In the center of the room stood a long cracked mirror. Fine webs of dust connected each thing and they swayed and danced as she moved slowly past them. Her shoes crunched on glass shards and her long black dress picked up slivers of broken mirror.

Kathleen’s scarred face was wet with tears, when she reached out to touch the once-exquisite material of the decaying wedding dress that hung limply on the form. Rusted straight pins that once held the pieces of the dress together now held tatters that swayed like the cobwebs. When she touched it, it crumbled in her fingers and fell to the floor to mix with other debris. The rest of the dress hugged the form to below the waist, then fanned out in a train of cascades of satin and Irish Lace. A wreath of pearls and crystals, with a long veil attached, had been placed around the neck. Satin shoes stood neatly on the floor and an embroidered white bag hung from its shoulder.

The memory of that terrible morning forty years ago, just before dawn, felt as new as if it happened yesterday. Her father had stormed into the attic room where she’d worked all night on the wedding dress. He’d been out all night drinking.

“Kathleen,” he’d said. “There’s talk in town that your young man, John Reynolds, isn’t what he says. There’s talk he’s a Britisher and a soldier.” She barely remembered John’s face now, the man she was to marry, though she knew he was tall, red-haired, and gave the impression he was Irish. But he wasn’t. He was English, a Protestant and a soldier.

“Do you know anything about this, girl? They killed your dear, sweet mother. She died in a fire they’d started. Are you presuming to marry one of the kind that killed your mother?” Her father’s face was bright red and his eyes glazed over with anger and pain. He held her face in both hands, his fingers callused and rough, his breath on her face hot and foul.

She tried to explain, pulling away from him. “Not all people from England are bad, Da,” she said. “John is a wonderful man and I’m going to marry him. Please understand. You liked him before you found out.” She held his face now in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I will never allow you to marry a Britisher. I’d rather see you dead. These men killed women and children, women like your mother. I’d rather see you dead!” He swung at the floor length mirror. It cracked—a long jagged crack like a starburst in the center that spread down the whole mirror. Small slivers of sparkling glass fell to the floor and mingled with the drops of blood from his hand. He staggered out of the room and Kathleen buried her face in her hands, crying. When she heard the front door slam, she jumped up and ran out of the house, tripping and falling. Kathleen quickly saddled a horse, and within minutes, was on her way to John’s boardinghouse. It was cold that day in November 1845, and the wind that whistled brought tears to her eyes, stinging her cheeks. She prodded the horse to hurry. The cobblestone streets were empty, and the horse’s hooves echoed loudly as the only guesthouse in Glendoura came into view. Her father’s horse was already there, its body heaving and breathless.

“Da!” she yelled as she stumbled up the stairs, “please don’t hurt him.” They were in the hall, her father’s hands on John’s neck.

“You like Irish lassies, eh, son? You come here and kill the people and then you take the lassies. No, you will not have my Kathleen,” he yelled as he tightened his hands. Kathleen screamed and he turned. “Go home, girl, this is man’s business. Go home,” he said, as he pushed John back into the small bedroom

“Please, Da, don’t hurt him, please.” She tired to get between them, but Jim Murray was so drunk and strong she couldn’t get his hands off John’s neck. He pushed her back and she fell against the wall. John broke free and ran to help her. As she got to her feet, he held her tight, and over John’s shoulder, she saw her father pick up the oil lamp from the mantle. As the first rays of dawn glimmered off the lamp, her father, in a blind fury, threw it against the wall behind them. Before she could warn or scream, flaming fluid covered them both. John Reynolds, a Britisher and the kindest of men, died in that room, and Kathleen’s hair caught fire. Burning oil dripped on here face and hands, scarring her forever. Jim Murray never spoke a word after that. For one week he sat rocking in his chair, crying and babbling nonsensically. On the Sunday of the following week, he went into the barn and set it on fire, killing himself on what was to have been Kathleen’s wedding day.

A stray hair, now gray and thin but once the color of autumn leaves, fell across her face and she pushed it back with a shaky pale hand. She was sixty-five now, and as she stood there crying, the pain in her chest grew worse. She leaned heavily on the arm of her father’s rocking chair. She sat in it. Kathleen watched as the sun rose higher, and for a brief moment, brought life to the lace and satin and all the fancy beads through the necklace. Then, it reached its highest peak and no longer shone on the crystals, and the dress lost its short bright life and, like her memories, became dark and ugly.

Kathleen opened the trunk and a smell of mildew and rot filled the room. On the top was a portrait of her mother, her father’s pipe, and a hair brush with fancy beads that her father had given her. On the bottom of the trunk was a silver locket that had been her mother’s. She looked at each keepsake, then closed her eyes and felt them like a blind person would. When she held her father’s pipe in her hands, she could see him. A great bear of a man, was Jim Murray, with bright eyes like her own. For just a momentm, a small smile changed her face as she thought of him. The Jim Murray, who before the drink, and before the pain, had been a proud Irish farmer, who’d built his own home in the early 1800s in Ireland, a craftsman. She remembered how well liked he’d been in the small village of Glendoura. He’d fought for justice and equal rights, and firmly believed that the British were the ruin of Ireland. She flung the fine cherry wood pipe across the room. “Damn you, Da,” she said aloud. She placed the locket around her neck and her face softened again.

She rocked in the same chair, thinking about how much she’d loved both men, a lifetime ago. The dress was all that was left, a dress made of lace and satin imported from Dublin, it had almost been finished. She’d wait every day for a package of fabric, and how excited her father had been for her. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride in all of Ireland, lass,” he’d said.

On the day they’d buried Jim Murray, Kathleen nailed the necklace John had given her to the widow, placed the shoes under the form and padlocked the door. Now, she hung the crystal beads around her neck. She put on the dress and shoes, and even though most of it fell apart at her touch, when she looked in the broken mirror she saw a young girl with long auburn hair and green eyes in the most wonderful dress in the world. She didn’t see the scars or the old face. She twirled, and saw a handsome young man beckon to her, from the mirror, that he might have this dance. The oil lamp flickered nearby, now casting eerie shadows on the scarred dancing old woman. As the sun went down, she sat again in the rocking chair, in the dress, reliving memories long since stored away. She sat there all night.

Another frosty November dawn broke the sky and Kathleen looked one more time around a room that held the pieces and fabric and pattern—precious things of her life—then picked up the lamp and smashed it against the wall. Fire spread quickly behind her, and thick smoke choked her as she sat back in the chair, the room ablaze. She sat, rocking calmly, and as the flames touched the hem of her wedding dress, the sun came in again and touched the crystal necklace—

And the dress glowed.