To Live Again

9. Fashion & Magic

Following Niamh's directions, I stroll along the corridor on the first floor. Plush rugs of deep burgundy with swirls of silver and gold line the high polished floor, and the pale silver-grey painted walls are moulded and inlaid with the same dainty patterns. The short walk takes much longer than it should as my fingertips barely graze the designs, marvelling at the complexity of lines so fine and flawless. There's pictures—great, wide canvases—in gilded frames that dot the larger expanses of bare wall. These fully capture my attention. Some are of people, maybe part of the royal family or ancestors, there's faint resemblance in some but not all. Other pictures are just living 'scapes of this strange world. Exotic, beautiful-beyond-imagination scenes; forests, lakes, mountains, and valleys. One in particular at the top of the staircase—the largest—is a watercolour of a great lake, or sea, with what I can only discern as a strange dawn. The greys, blues, greens, and browns weave together tumbling over on the waves and melding water and horizon together as a column of golden light streams through the clouds.

Heaven's gate flits across my mind as I stand under the painting, getting lost in the skill and mastery of how the artist caught the light with such precision. If it wasn't still, I might've imagined the waves to be rolling, the light to be dancing, and the gulls calling over the din of the tide. I might've stood on that beach and felt the sea breeze rip through my hair and the salt on my tongue. It might've been home.

Tears spring to my eyes and my throat constricts. I take a firm step back and set my jaw into a tight lock, biting down the pain ... biting down the memories.

I spin away from the picture and briskly descend the stairs, spine rigid. I repeatedly remind myself I must maintain a cover. My life depends on it. I repeat it over and over until I reach the door Niamh had instructed was the one to the dining room and drawing room respectively. It barely cracks open when voices flit on the warm air as well as the distant smell of something hot and savoury. My stomach squelches in anticipation.

True enough, behind the door is a dining room. A large oval table—cherrywood, the seemingly preferred colour—polished so much I'm frightened to press a finger to it and smudge the mirror like surface. It can sit eight comfortably, but it's only set for four tonight—Ardan must be staying. A trio of candelabras' with thick, waxy candles burn in the centre, amid a decorative centre piece of twined ivy, willow branches and berries. A crystal decanter of the deepest red wine rests and the ornate crystal and silverware send me into a panic. I've never cast eyes on anything so rich, so decadent. How will I ever convince Niamh if I've zero fancy dinner etiquette. Not to mention ... my hair is not fit for such an occasion.

Self-consciously, I twine my hands around the bunched and fraying end of my braid as I tiptoe past the table and toward the glass doors that I assume lead to the drawing room, and the voices emanating beyond. The doors are slightly cracked and I peer into the room, scouting it before I announce myself.

Velveteen settees frame the space, while a large ornate fireplace burns and crackles in the centre basking the whole room in orange light. Bookcases line the far walls and vases with flowers, and a lot of potted trees and plants decorate any spare space. On a settee closest to the fire Ardan is crouched in front of Oisín. A fond smile lights his face and his hair almost glistens in the firelight. He has twine in his hand and by the giggles coming from the depths of the cushions I can tell he is entertaining the little prince.

He whispers and winds the twine around his fingers and I watch Oisín shove his little hand through the largest gap. In a quick flick of his hands, he snares the boy's in a trap which both astounds and amuses Oisín to no end. It's oddly endearing, yet a little weird to see something quite human unfold. I figured these folk above common trickery and illusion.