CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After showering and returning to the library, everyone began scouring the books to see if they’d missed anything at all that might help them. Joseph seemed fine, happy that the finger bone was on it’s way home to their own laboratories.
“You’ve got an interesting family history,” smirked JT. “A cattle rustling ancestor, a pirate, a musician, three priests, a nun, and a few other sordid characters.”
“I do,” nodded Conor with a grin. “Some were legitimate business men and women, others had more imagination.”
“Hey, what were the dates of O’Shan’s death again?” asked Fitz.
“He died in September 1691, or thereabouts. Why?” asked Rose.
“Because this book is describing a traveling minstrel and circus show during the county’s fair days several years before that. It speaks of jugglers, men walking on sticks, tight-rope walkers, and healers. It even mentions several countries, Spanish Empire, Kingdoms of Bohemia and Poland, and …”
“Let me guess, the Czardom of Russia?” asked Julia.
“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 soft with 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 to political 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 through its 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.
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.”