Their hotel outside Dublin was not much to look at. It sported a gorgeous sea-facing view, but more important was its location in Dalkey: On the same stretch of road, taking up a large portion of what Ravenna’s map called Sorrento Point, Swallowhill loomed above their accommodations.
Surrounded by modern houses, Killiney’s former residence seemed the last remnant of a bygone Ireland, a fortress complete with all the trimmings. Perched above the Irish Sea at the edge of a rocky precipice, ancient towers of undressed stone rose from the water’s edge. The battlements and arrow loops, along with the height at which the few, small windows stood against the timeworn walls, revealed the extreme age of the fortification, for it wasn’t a nineteenth-century romantic reproduction. It certainly wasn’t Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland. Swallowhill was the pristine home of the ghosts of Killiney’s ancestors.
Gazing up at its towers, shielding her eyes from the constant drizzle, Ravenna nudged her travel escort. “I thought this was a house? You said this was a house.”
“I said nothing of the sort, my dear.”
But while they talked amongst themselves, a young woman came down the road just then. With her pert, businesslike gait, she approached where they stood together, gaping at the castle, and it didn’t take long for Ravenna to see the look of irritation on the woman’s pretty face.
David stepped back to let her pass. Ravenna dared to meet her eyes as the woman skirted them and, with a toss of her golden hair, carried herself right up to the gates of Swallowhill.
It was all Ravenna could do to keep from shouting after her. “Ma’am—,” and she scurried to where the woman stood, key in lock, eyes moving over Ravenna as if she were a beggar, “Ma’am, I was wondering if you could possibly—”
“If it’s directions you want,” the woman said, pointing back up the road, “the hotel will help you, I’m quite sure.”
“No, but thank you, we’d like to talk with you about your castle,” she explained. “Do you have a minute? Can we buy you a cup of coffee?”
The woman’s perfect features crumpled in a scowl. “Americans, are you? Well, my house isn’t open for tours. Go up to Malahide if that’s what you want.”
“Look,” David said, “could we possibly talk to your husband?”
“No you couldn’t.” And with a final, cold and beautiful glare, she let herself in and disappeared.
Ravenna turned to David beside her. “This isn’t bad luck,” she said, squinting in the rain. “This is happening for a reason we just don’t understand yet.”