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As we take a few steps deeper into the castle to the foot of the main staircase, the arctic blast disappears with ear-popping speed. “I must have walked through a draft.”
Colleen rubs my arms. “I hope the chills don’t mean you’re getting sick.”
Samantha waves a hand along the stairs. “Up you go.” A coal black cat weaves between her feet, nearly tripping her. “I’ll not feed you beast, even if you are the devil.” She nudges the cat out of the way and grins at us. “Any strange noises you hear—cats.”
Framed in an archway on the second floor, History Buff Olk gestures with a flourish at the ceiling inside the double doors. As soon as Colleen, Charlie, and I join him in the long room, I see what the fuss is about. The expanse above us could be a wedding cake covered in lace. A pattern of huge upside-down cones flows the length of the room. Scallops and floral details radiate from the center of each point. I’m sure if I could reach the ceiling, I’d come away with a huge dollop of ivory buttercream frosting on my finger.
Jeremy, Jerry, or Jer Olk’s tone shifts from admiring to giddy. “The fan vault design creates an acoustical environment that’s pure heaven.” He practically skips halfway down the length of the room. “Do you hear?” he says in a low voice that reaches my ears as if he were standing next to me. “No amplification necessary. I’ve picked this room to introduce you to the ghosts of Charleville Castle.”
Colleen’s previous moniker of Professor Adorbs does fit him nicely.
As we gather round, I notice Sion peel away from the group and head to the far end of the room where a quartet of musicians is setting up on a makeshift stage that’s far from historically accurate. They greet him with embraces and slaps on the back.
I check my schedule, Folk music at Charleville Castle. Another tour joins us in the room, gravitating to the band as Jeremy starts in on a ghost story. Light knifes through the window, giving his cheekbones and chin a bladelike quality, his little boy look from the plane gone. He’s pulled off his glasses, waving them through the air for emphasis.
Before he can finish his story, the wail of a violin drowns him out. Pipes join in and rollicking Irish music fills the ballroom. The volunteers, a few still in tool belts, stream through the door to enjoy the show.
Jeremy isn’t happy his storytelling is cut short as music trumps ghost tales. He scratches the stubble on his chin, humming a rhythm that does not match the song bouncing around the fan-vaulted chamber. I move closer, planning to lean shoulder-to-shoulder with him and whisper encouragement that his lecture is postponed not overshadowed, but stop dead when a familiar voice joins the melody.
Sion.
Our trip add-on sings from the stage. His voice as gorgeous and rich as a salted caramel truffle fills the room. Even though he’s twenty feet away, I hear him as clearly as if he were crooning softly in my ear.
Only to me.
So lovely.
“Put off that mask of burning gold
with emerald eyes.
‘O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold.”
I know these words. It’s not a song, or at least it didn’t start out that way. It’s a poem by Yeats. Máthair adored Yeats. His words were as much a part of our home as my grandmother’s quilts. Which one is this? Mask of burning gold? The Mask—That’s it. Burning gold like the tiny ring around the green in Máthair’s eyes.
I’m not alone in being drawn to Sion’s voice. There isn’t a single sound in the room apart from the music and the singer.
“I would but find what’s there to find,
Love or deceit.
It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what’s behind.”
We’re all prisoners to Yeats and Sion Loho. Their grip is silky, yet unrelenting. I’m afraid to move, as if a single blink of my eye or step will break the spell.
“But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire.
Oh no, my dear, let all that be;
