“No. The Kingdom of Hungary,” said Fitz. “But O’Shan may not have known the difference. If someone from Hungary was dressed as a priest or anyone from Russia, he might have fooled him and taken his money.”
“God, how awful to think of that. If that man made him believe he was a priest, a healing priest, and took his money by telling him something so horrid as to drain the blood of someone, he’s the one responsible for all of this,” said Julia.
“That might be true but he’s long gone and we can’t punish him, nor can John O’Shan,” said Sean. “But if we can prove that’s what happened, we might have a chance in stopping O’Shan’s spirit from killing again.”
“There’s nothing more to be done today,” said Conor. “It’s not even ten a.m. What do you say to a day trip into Dublin?”
They all grinned at one another and nodded.
“I think that sounds lovely,” said Julia. “Don’t you Rose?”
“Oh, I don’t need to go,” she said blushing. “I mean, I’m from here. I’ve been to Dublin.” Conor stared at her, the pink highlighting her fair skin.
“It’s true,” he nodded, “but you’ve never been with me.”
***
The Laughlin private jet landed on the strip in Dublin just thirty minutes after taking off. The men were all familiar with the jet, as G.R.I.P. built it and equipped it with things that the Laughlin’s might need in an emergency.
The tour began with the kind of quiet precision that makes a city feel as though it has been opened especially for a single guest, or in this case, a group of guests. Dublin, still softwith early light as the fog lifted and the last trace of river mist, seemed to gather itself around the day’s private itinerary.
A polished car waited at the curb, its route already arranged not by convenience but by mood, and Conor: a slow unfolding of history, beauty, and atmosphere, led by their guides, Conor and Sean, who spoke of the city less as a destination than as an old and fascinating acquaintance.
From the first turn through the Georgian streets, Dublin revealed its elegance in layers. Doorways painted in deep jewel tones stood against graceful brick terraces, and brass knockers shone as though the city had dressed for company.
In the squares and crescents, plane trees stirred faintly above iron railings, while the guide pointed out the architectural confidence of an era that still gave the capital much of its visual rhythm. Nothing felt hurried. Each stop seemed chosen for the way it deepened the last, so that the city’s grandeur emerged as a conversation rather than a performance.
At Trinity College, the gates opened onto a world that felt instantly calmer, as though the city had stepped back to allow scholarship and time their own dominion. Stone facades rose with a restrained dignity, and the cobbled paths carried the weight of centuries without ever seeming burdened by them.
Inside, the atmosphere became almost reverent, especially in the presence of the celebrated treasures for which the university is known, including the storied Book of Kells and the long, vaulted library that has become one of Dublin’s most iconic interiors.
The guide at the College knew exactly when to speak and when to let silence complete the effect.
Later, the route moved toward Dublin Castle, where the city’s history shifted register from collegiate refinement topolitical memory and ceremonial weight. Courtyards, gardens, and stately exteriors told stories of governance, pageantry, and reinvention, all of it held within walls that have watched Dublin change across generations.
“Joseph? Look at the painting,” said Julia. “It’s a fair with foreign guests performing. The date is 1690.”
“It could be the same fair,” he whispered. “It’s worth checking out.”
What made the experience memorable was not simply the prestige of the site, but the intimacy of the access: the sense that every gate opened at the right moment, every corner revealed itself without a crowd, and every detail had been considered in advance.
No private tour worth remembering would ignore the city’s smaller enchantments, and so the day continued through places where Dublin’s charm was less formal but no less exacting.
Along Grafton Street, music drifted upward from buskers with voices polished by open air and passing audiences. In Temple Bar’s lanes, bright shopfronts and old brick walls combined in a way that felt theatrical without losing authenticity.
Conor navigated these well-known quarters with the tact of someone who knew where the real texture lay—in a hidden courtyard, a view down a lane, the right café doorway, the pause before a bridge.
By midday, the experience had become less like sightseeing and more like being folded into the temperament of the city itself. Dublin has a gift for balancing literary grace with practical warmth, and that balance was everywhere—in the formal sweep of its institutions, in the wit woven throughits history, and in the effortless hospitality that seemed to accompany every introduction.
The private nature of the tour sharpened all of it. There was time for an unscheduled stop, for a longer look, for questions that opened into stories. Luxury, here, was not excess but curation.
As afternoon softened toward evening, the itinerary turned from the city’s public face to its more indulgent pleasures. A final drive traced the curve of the river and passed terraces glowing in the slanted light, as if Dublin were consciously arranging its farewell before dinner.
The car arrived at a five-star dining room where discretion was part of the service and every detail, from the lighting to the spacing of tables, suggested assurance rather than display. Nothing announced itself loudly because nothing needed to.
Dinner unfolded with the same measured elegance that had shaped the day. Courses arrived with a composure that bordered on theatrical, each one composed with a precision that honored both Irish ingredients and international technique.
There were flavors drawn from the coast and the countryside, wines chosen not merely to accompany but to elevate, and service so attentive it seemed almost intuitive.
