23. The Unexpected #3
The walk through the villa feels like a journey in itself. The halls are long and winding, adorned with paintings of sprawling landscapes and sea vistas. The light filtering through the windows casts golden hues on the tiled floors, and the air feels calm, almost sacred.
When we reach my room, the woman opens the door with a gentle push, revealing a space that takes my breath away.
The room is spacious but cosy, with soft linens draped over a wide bed, a small writing desk by the window, and a basin of water already set on a stand.
Sunlight pours in through the open shutters, illuminating the delicate patterns etched into the walls.
A fresh set of clothes lie folded neatly on the bed, simple yet elegant .
“Many thanks,” I whisper, and the woman inclines her head before retreating silently down the hall. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath, letting the tranquility of the space wash over me.
It’s then I realise how quiet it is—too quiet. My room feels removed, distant from the others, as though it’s on the farthest side of the house entirely.
I feel the faintest twinge of unease. But as I look around the room again—the inviting bed, the basin with clear water, the view of the sea stretching endlessly outside the window—I let the feeling go.
This place is a sanctuary, a reprieve from everything we’ve endured.
I may be alone on this side of the villa, but maybe that’s exactly what I need.
With that thought, I step toward the basin, preparing to wash away the grim clinging to my skin.
My gaze flickers to the mirror, catching sight of the gown hanging there, and I nearly gasp.
It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—delicate, luxurious, as if made for someone who is not me. But right now, that doesn’t matter.
My fingers trail over the buttons at my back, each one loosening the grip of my dress against my body.
The fabric sighs as it slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet.
A shiver prickles down my spine as the cool air kisses the newly bared skin, leaving nothing between me and my reflection but the thin shift clinging to my form.
I watch myself, drawn to the way sunlight dances over my skin, the way the sheer fabric moulds to my body, revealing more than it conceals.
The curve of my waist, the soft swell of my breasts, the long lines of my legs—all things I rarely stop to notice.
A strange warmth coils low in my stomach, not quite embarrassment, not quite pride. Something new. Something unnameable.
I move to wash away the remnants of travel from my skin. I take my time at the basin, letting the cool water chase away the dust and weariness, trailing damp fingers over every part of me—my arms, my legs, my neck, the curves of my body—until I feel clean, refreshed, renewed.
With a steadying breath, I reach for the hanging gown and begin to slip it on.
A knock at the door startles me. “Come in,” I call, turning slightly.
The door opens, and a young handmaiden steps inside, her presence quiet but efficient. She dips her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll help you tie it properly, my lady,” she says, her voice soft but assured.
I nod, exhaling as I step forward, letting her guide me into the dress. The emerald fabric slides over my skin like water, cool and weightless at first, before tightening as she laces the bodice. I grip the bedpost for balance as she pulls the stays snug, pressing the gown to my curves.
The fabric feels decadent against my fingertips, like liquid moonlight shimmering in the golden glow of the room. It clings in places I’m not used to, the bodice dipping low, baring the delicate slope of my shoulders, revealing more of my breasts than I’ve ever dared to before.
I fidget, smoothing the skirt with trembling hands. The woman in the mirror stares back, mesmerising yet foreign, like a version of myself I don’t quite know.
Deidre steps inside, her expression brightening when she sees me. “Well, look at you,” she says, a glint in her eye as she takes me in.
“It’s so beautiful,” I admit, gesturing to the gown. “But… isn’t it a bit, well, revealing?” I glance at the mirror again, my cheeks heating. “Won’t my bro—”
Deidre cuts me off with a tut and a wave of her hand. “They’ll have to get over it,” she says firmly, but her tone is light. “That’s how most of us dress here. They’re not so… modest in this country.”
Her playful smirk makes me smile despite my nerves. “Come on, the others are waiting.”
Before I can argue further, she grips my arm and guides me out of the room, leading me down the hall and into a sitting room that feels like a scene from a dream.
A grand table overflows with trays of fruit, pastries, cheeses, and delicate cakes, while the mouthwatering aroma of fresh bread and herbs fills the air.
My band of merry men are already there, lounging comfortably in their chairs, their earlier tension washed away by the food and the ambiance.
Callan and Casey are deep in conversation while Bran is inspecting a glass of wine, as if it holds the secrets of the divine.
Finn stands at the edge of the group, his arms crossed as he leans back against the frame of a door, his gaze distant.
“My, don’t you lot look absolutely dashing,” I announce as we step into the room.
They all turn to look at us, their laughter fading as their gazes settle on me.
Callan and Casey’s reactions are immediate. Casey chokes on his drink, sputtering, while Callan nearly drops the pastry in his hand, his eyes narrowing on me. Bran’s jaw simply falls open, his usual bravado completely wiped away.
Finn’s reaction, however, is different. His eyes flicker over me for only a moment before his expression tightens .
“Well, then,” Deidre says, clearly delighted by the chaos she’s caused. She pats my arm and nudges me forward. “Go on, love. Join them. Don’t let their stares frighten you off.”
I hesitate, suddenly feeling exposed under their scrutiny, but Deidre’s encouraging smile steadies me. I step forward, my movements careful, and take a seat near the end of the table.
Callan recovers first, though I see in his eyes he’s about to lie into me before a rather well-timed cough on the other side of the room halts him. “Ye, uh… clean up well, Triona.” he says, though his tone is sharper than it needs to be.
Casey lets out a nervous laugh, still coughing a little. “Aye, well, she’s… um…”
“Stunning,” Bran finishes, his voice quieter than usual. He walks over. “Since no one else has the courage to say it properly…” He leans down, placing a quick, friendly kiss on my cheek. “You look absolutely radiant.”
“Many thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my cheeks are on fire.
Finn doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look over toward the exchange, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind. I force myself to focus on the food and conversation, but his silence lingers like a shadow.
Casey waves me over from across the room, his excitement palpable. “Triona, come look at this,” he calls, gesturing toward a large portrait hanging prominently on the wall.
I make my way over, the sheer size of the painting commanding my attention. The woman depicted in the portrait is striking—dark, thoughtful eyes, her features soft yet determined. There’s something almost haunting in the way she gazes out from the canvas.
Casey points to the plaque beneath the frame, his brow furrowed as he reads aloud. “‘ Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. ’” He glances at me, his confusion mirrored in my expression. “Why d’ye think this quote is under this portrait?”
Before I can reply, Deidre’s voice drifts from behind us, calm and certain. “That, my darlings, is Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.”
Casey and I turn to look at her, my curiosity piqued. “Why is she hangin’ on the wall?” Casey asks, tilting his head.
Before Deidre can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes through the room, and a woman appears from the shadows of the doorway.
She’s stunning, her beauty so arresting that it’s almost disarming.
Her long red hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and her face—her features—strike a chord so deep and chilling that my breath catches in my throat.
She’s familiar, I can’t explain how, and a shiver runs down my spine .
“She’s on the wall because I painted it in her honour when she published her first book,” the woman says, her voice smooth and confident.
I blink, trying to process what she just said. “You know her… personally?”
The woman steps closer, a smile curving her lips. “Aye, she’s a dear friend of mine.”
I’m too stunned to speak for a moment. My eyes flicker between the portrait and the woman in front of me, the sensation of familiarity growing stronger by the second.
Deidre steps forward, her expression softening as she glances between us. “Allow me to introduce Amelia Curran,” she says with warmth, though her voice carries a hint of caution.
“Curran?” The name feels heavy on my tongue, as though it carries a significance.
Amelia’s gaze remains fixed on me, her smile fading slightly. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she begins, her voice steady but careful. “So it’s best I just come out and say it.”
The room feels impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken weight.
“Caitríona Sinclair,” she continues, “I am your aunt. My sister, Sarah Curran—she was your mother. Your true mother.”