Page 116 of Killaney Fire

I force a polite smile as we continue down the winding stairwell, narrower and dimmer than anything else we've seen tonight. The ornate sconces flicker with soft golden light, but the space still feels colder, less alive.

Octavian catches my gaze. One brow lifts. His posture tightens slightly, shoulders squaring, jaw set. His hand drifts subtly toward his jacket, toward his weapon, I hope, and the movement is so slight I doubt Elizabeth even notices.

But I do.

I always notice him now.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and cross into another wing of the hotel entirely. The architecture shifts. The ceilings drop lower, lights dim, and it's quieter here.

Two security guards stand outside a set of double doors, arms crossed, eyes sharp. They nod at Elizabeth, and one pulls the door open without a word.

We step into a vaulted room, more cathedral than gallery.

The ceilings stretch overhead, painted with faded frescoes of pastoral scenes, rolling green hills, stone circles, warriors on horseback.

Glass displays line the perimeter, glowing softly from within. Velvet ropes form paths between them. The room isn't crowded, maybe twenty guests total. Some move slowly between the cases, murmuring. Others stand in front of certain artifacts, admiring them.

Elizabeth steps deeper into the room, and I follow, Octavian a shadow at my back.

As we walk, I'm able to get a better look at the displays and what they're filled with.

Weathered family crests. Old Gaelic daggers, the blades etched with spirals and knots. Jewelry filled with green emeralds anddiamonds. Faded oil paintings of men in high collars and women in dark dresses, their eyes stern and unforgiving.

I catch several of the plaques beneath each display:

17th–19th Century Ireland. Boston Colonial Resistance. The Sons of Liberty.

I move closer to one of the cases. Inside is a leather-bound journal, open to a page covered in cramped handwriting. The ink is faded, the edges of the paper yellowed and brittle.

The plaque reads:Diary of Thomas O'Shea, 1847. Famine Emigrant.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Elizabeth says from somewhere behind me. "Shadowharbor has spent decades acquiring pieces like this, preserving the stories of those who came before. The ones who built this city with their lives and their suffering."

I don't respond at first.

Then I just nod and force a smile. "Yes, this is all so lovely," I say, but the air in this room is too still, almost heavy.

Elizabeth drifts past us and continues walking, gesturing to the displays as she speaks. "We believe history should be honored. That the sacrifices of the past shouldn't be forgotten. Or forgiven."

That last word lands like a slap, and I look at Octavian, who's scanning the room.

We walk deeper inside, and Elizabeth stops in the center of the room near a pedestal draped in black velvet.

"This," she says, turning to face me, "is what I most wanted to show you. Given your heritage, I thought you might appreciate it."

She pulls a cord, and the velvet falls away.

I don't know what I expect, but it's not her, and the moment I see it, my body locks.

The statue stands on top of a pedestal and must be nearly eight or nine feet tall, cast in blackened bronze that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Wings spread wide, massive and feathered, carved with such detail I can see individual barbs.

But it's her face, or rather faces, that make my blood run cold.

Three of them.

One screams, mouth open wide, eyes hollow and agonized.

One weeps, tears carved in silver that trail down her cheeks like scars.