Cillian
She emerges from the room like something out of a dream.
Her body is draped in an ice blue dress with billowy sleeves and a hemline that ends just above her knees. She’s kept her hair down, but I suspect she’s combed it before walking out here.
I take that as a good sign. A sign that maybe a small part of her wants to look her best for me.
Not that she has to make any effort, really. She could be dressed in a garbage bag and I would still think of her as the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.
“You look extraordinary,” I say without thinking.
I mean it.
She smiles self-consciously and avoids my eyes. “Thank you,” she mutters. Then she blinks and shakes her head like she’s trying to dislodge a bad thought. “So, where are we starting the tour?”
“Right here.” I steer her into the first room on the left.
It’s one of the larger drawing rooms and boasts a view of the north side of the lake. Mountains pierce the sky in the far distance and a thick blanket of mist winds around the thicket of trees near the lake’s edge.
Ma spent a decade renovating this castle. She made sure it was modernized and livable. But she knew how to retain the Old World charm.
I watch Saoirse’s face as she steps into the room. Her eyes go wide with awe as she pirouettes slowly on the spot, unsure what to even look at first.
I start to see the castle through her eyes.
From a girl who came from nothing, this must all seem so extravagant.
“It’s a lot, I know,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back. I probably shouldn’t, but the urge to touch her is overwhelming.
I’m looking for any excuse to do it. This tour feels like sufficient cause.
“It’s amazing,” she says at last. Her eyes fall to me. “Did you come here often as a kid?”
“We’d spent a few odd summers here once in a while,” I admit. “But then… we stopped.”
“Why?”
I feel my jaw snap shut.
It’s habit more than anything else. And thankfully, she doesn’t notice, because her attention has turned to the massive portraits that sit above the stone fireplace.
“Are those family members?” she asks.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Da hated the portraits. Morbid old bastards, he’d always say. But Ma ruled the roost here. He let her have her way when it came to décor.”
“They’re all so beautiful,” Saoirse observes, walking down the line to gaze at each one carefully.
“This is your father?” she asks, pointing at Ronan’s solemn depiction.
I nod.
“And your mother. And Sean. And you. And Kian. And…”
I’m hoping she won’t stop at the last portrait in the line.
But of course she does.
I can’t really blame her, either. Aoife has the kind of face that catches a person’s eye. Huge, dewy eyes, a petite nose, high cheekbones, slight dimples, and a soft, secretive smile that still manages to look innocent.