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Selene nods, pushing back a stray lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail. "He does. Michael's both the mouthpiece and the earpiece for Victor. If we can get to him, convince him somehow..."
Her voice trails off, the implication hanging between us. It would be a dangerous game approaching Michael. Diarmuid had made it clear that any attempt to engage with him would need meticulous planning. Michael was not just a spokesperson; he was a sentinel, acutely aware of any threats to Victor or their clandestine operations.
I trace my finger along the edge of the photograph of Sofia Hughes, pinned carefully amidst a sea of other images and notes. There’s something about Sofia that resonates deeply with me, something beyond the scope of this investigation. Perhaps it's because I see shades of my own little sister in her—the same defiant spark, the same stubborn tilt of the chin. Maura, Sofia’s sister, and the fierce love she couldn’t show before it was too late, haunts me. I often wonder, lying awake at night, about the final moments of Sofia’s life. Who was it that ended her dreams, snuffed out her light? Did she call out to Maura with her last breath?
Beside me, Selene’s focus never wavers from her screen, her eyes flicking back and forth as she absorbs the influx of digital information. Her approach to this entire ordeal is precise, almost clinical, a stark contrast to the emotional storm that rages inside me. For Selene, Sofia is a case to be solved, a piece in a complex puzzle of corruption and hidden agendas. She acknowledges the tragedy but remains detached, finding a necessary distance that I find myself unable to maintain.
Selene's latest discovery that Sofia had connections within the government has only fueled her fervor. She pores over online archives, pulling up photographs of Cóisir Amárach’s public engagements, which is the newest political party in Ireland. “Look at this,” Selene suddenly calls out, her voice pulling me back from my thoughts.
I move closer, peering over her shoulder at her laptop screen. She points at a photograph from a ribbon-cutting ceremony, where Sofia can be seen in the background, her expression unreadable. “She’s everywhere Cóisir Amárach was,” Selene notes, her tone laced with intrigue. “It’s like she was shadowing them, or maybe it was the other way around.”
I nod, though my thoughts linger on the photo I was just examining—the one of Sofia at the National Museum of Ireland. In it, she leans casually against a pillar, looking out of place yet entirely at ease, as if she knows secrets about the people and the stones around her. Beside her, Tyrone Lynch, a known associate of Cóisir Amárach, engages animatedly with the museum curator.
“I think we need to visit the museum,” I say.
“Why?” Selene asks, turning to me.
"I can't explain it, Selene," I say, frustration coloring my voice. "But ever since we saw that photo of Sofia and Tyrone Lynch at the museum, something doesn't sit right with me. We might find something there, something everyone else has overlooked."
Selene sighs, her expression softening slightly as she recognizes my determination. "Fine." She relents, but not without a pointed look. "But if we're going down this rabbit hole, we’re doing it thoroughly."
She reaches for the medallion lying amidst the scattered papers on the desk. She turns it over in her hands thoughtfully before slipping it into her pocket. Her obsession with decoding its secrets has grown with every dead end we've hit; it’s as if she believes the medallion itself holds the answers to our sprawling investigation.
“Let me get changed.” I quickly return to the room and throw on some jeans and a sweater. This will take my mind off this competition and give me something productive to do.
Together, we descend the stairs to the foyer, where one of Diarmuid's men is stationed by the door. His presence is both a reassurance and a reminder of the constant surveillance we live under.
"Where to today?" he asks, his voice betraying no interest beyond professional courtesy.
"The National Museum of Ireland," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. The mention of the museum doesn’t raise an eyebrow; he’s used to our sudden outings by now, though the destinations are rarely this cultural.
He nods, reaching for his radio to call in the car. As we wait, I can’t shake the feeling that we're stepping closer to a hidden truth.
As we pull up to the National Museum of Ireland, I can't help but feel a surge of both excitement and trepidation. The grandeur of the building’s archaeology strikes me immediately—it's majestic, standing confidently among Dublin’s historic architecture. Even though I’ve wandered through many of Europe’s grand opera houses and theaters, the museum’s imposing facade and the elegance of its structure demand a moment of admiration.
“I’ve never been to this part of the museum,” I say as we step out of the car, my eyes scanning the elaborate stonework and towering columns.
Selene gives me a brief smile, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Let’s hope it’s worth the trip,” she says, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
We pass through the security checks, and the tightness of the measures reminds me that whatever secret Diarmuid is keeping from us must be more significant than just familial scandals and tragic deaths. There’s an undercurrent of something larger at play, something potentially dangerous.
Inside, the museum is relatively quiet, a typical weekday scene with a few groups of tourists milling about. The sound of a primary school group echoes faintly from another gallery, their young voices a stark contrast to the otherwise solemn atmosphere. I watch them for a moment as they’re led around by a teacher, their curiosity unbounded as they point at displays and artifacts.
Selene and I head toward the main room, where the gold artifacts are displayed. My gaze sweeps over the items, each piece telling a story of Ireland’s rich and tumultuous history. While Selene seems to recognize some of the pieces, likely from her extensive readings, I am seeing most of them for the first time. Growing up, history lessons in my house were more focused on the tragic lives of famed ballerinas than on national heritage.
“These pieces are incredible, aren’t they?” I say to Selene, drawn to a display of ancient gold necklaces and brooches. Their craftsmanship is exquisite, a testament to the skill and artistry of their makers.
My childhood studies, the dramatic, often tragic stories of ballerinas like Mathilde Kschessinska, Emma Livry, and Heidi Guenther were my history lessons—women whose lives were as glittering and as fragile as the delicate pieces before me. Their struggles with power, fate, and vulnerability resonate deeply as I trace the contours of a golden torc, imagining it as a halo once worn by those ill-fated dancers.
A great golden shield captures my reflection, and for a moment, I'm not just a visitor in a museum; I am part of this collection, another story of potential and peril. The shield throws back an image of myself: Niamh Connolly, twenty-two, once a ballerina, now a Bride of Diarmuid O’Sullivan. The uncertainty of my future weighs heavily as I move away from the shield, the reflection distorted as the angle changes.
Drawn inexplicably toward a familiar pillar, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I can almost see Sofia Hughes, her presence as palpable as if she were standing before me, urging me toward this very spot. I leave Selene engrossed in her examination of a collection of decorative spears and approach the pillar.
Beside it, a new exhibit catches my eye—a collection on loan from the British Museum featuring relics once belonging to John Dee, the famed Elizabethan alchemist and occultist. Among these is a piece that immediately draws me in: a flat, thin slab of obsidian, polished to a dark, ominous sheen. The label beside it identifies it as an Aztec mirror used by John Dee to conjure demons. Its surface is so finely polished that, despite its dark color, it reflects my face with an unsettling clarity.
The revelation sends a chill down my spine. It reveals Enochian—the language of the angels, as Dee claimed. I look at the medallion in Selene's hand, its inscriptions suddenly not just mere markings but potentially a language of celestial power, according to one of history's most infamous mystics. It's all too much to absorb in the quiet hum of the museum gallery.
"Are you saying this..." I gesture to the medallion, "...could be something more than just a decorative artifact?" My voice is tinged with a mixture of skepticism and wonder.
