Conversation naturally slowed into appreciation. Outside, the city continued in its own lively rhythm, but inside, time had narrowed to the glow of candlelight, polished glass, and the quiet certainty of excellence.
What distinguished the evening was not only luxury, but sequence: the way the dinner felt like the natural culmination of everything that had come before.
The learning and beauty of the morning, the walk, through centuries of civic and cultural identity, the private perspective on a capital so often seen only in fragments—all of it gathered here into a final urban flourish.
By the time dessert arrived, Dublin no longer felt like a city visited for a day. It felt like a place that had, for a few extraordinary hours, made a private arrangement with its guests.
From the restaurant, the transition to departure was seamless. There is a particular kind of comfort in moving through the world without friction, and that was the feeling as the evening car carried its passengers away from the city and toward the waiting aircraft.
The private terminal was calm, efficient, and almost improbably quiet after the richness of the day. Formalities were handled with minimal interruption, luggage seemed to disappear and reappear exactly where needed, and within minutes the jet stood ready on the tarmac under the Irish night.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere shifted once more, from social elegance to private repose. Leather seats, low lighting, and the muted hum of preparation created an enclosure entirely separate from the ordinary mechanics of travel.
Through the window, Dublin receded into points of gold as the aircraft lifted cleanly into darkness. The city that had spent the day revealing itself in stone, story, and hospitality now became an illuminated constellation below, briefly visible and then gone, leaving only the memory of its refinement.
Castle Laughlin was not merely a residence but a historic castle estate, the kind of place that seems to wait beyond modern time even while accommodating every modern grace.
Seen from above, it emerged from the surrounding landscape with an almost storybook authority: towers and stone walls held in darkness, a sweep of grounds silvered by moonlight, and a quiet that belonged only to places far removed from the demands of the day.
Arrival there felt less like ending a journey than entering its final, most secluded chapter.
By the time the last car door closed and the great entrance admitted its returning guests, the entire day seemed to exist as a perfectly judged composition: Dublin in its intellect and splendor, dinner in its height of polished pleasure, and the journey home in rarefied stillness above the night.
What remained was not only the memory of privilege, but of design—a day in which every setting had spoken to the next, each one deepening the sense of being cared for, expected, and quietly set apart from the ordinary world.
“What a beautiful day, Conor,” said Rose.
“It’s late,” said Conor clearing his throat. “Perhaps. Perhaps you should stay here tonight. There’s plenty of room.” Rose blushed and nodded.
“I’d be honored,” she said smiling at him. They all watched as Conor walked her up the steps to the west wing of the residence. His wing.
“That makes me happy,” smiled Sean. “Also, I had someone look up that painting. It was the same troop of performers as were here. They’d traveled around Ireland for nearly a year, then moved on to Scotland and England, but not for long. Something happened that made them run. I think we found our true villain.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Julia.
“Because a ‘priest’ in the troop accused three women of being witches. They were tried, convicted and burned at the stake only for it to be refuted after the fact. The three women were novices at a local convent. The Mother Superior, other nuns, priests, family members came out of the woodwork but it was all too late.”
“Oh, dear God,” muttered Rory. “Not this again.”
“Again?” frowned Sean. Rory slapped his back, sending the man forward from the force.
“Let’s have a drink and we’ll explain.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Péter István,” said Tanner. “He was a Hungarian performer specializing in magic tricks and allegedly reading minds, healing peoples illnesses and even identifying thieves and murderers in the crowd. He was part of a large troupe of performers that traveled the world and yes, he was in Dublin when those three women were burned at the stake. His act, specifically was of a priest performing holy magic.”
“Holy magic?” frown Chief. “Is there such a thing?”
“No, which is the point we’re trying to make,” said Tanner. “He had a history of convincing the wealthy that they were dying and had to perform an act in order to survive.”
“Let me guess, the act had to do with paying him an exorbitant amount of money,” said Fitz.
“Ironically, no. The act was always something horrible. He would tell them that they had to murder a stable boy or hang a butcher and make up a story. He told one nobleman that the butcher was cheating on his pregnant wife. He made up a story of a scullery maid attempting to poison the master’s food and she was boiled alive.”
“Holy shit,” muttered Rory. “We thought O’Shan was bad. Do we have anything on the bone yet?”
“We do,” said Riley staring into the screen. “O’Shan wasn’t exactly a healthy man but a blood transfusion would not have helped him. He had cancer, we think of the liver or pancreas. My guess is that our pretend priest saw that he was jaundiced or at the very least, losing weight and knew he could convince him to do something horrible.”
