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Kilmorran Castle was something out of a fairytale.

Curling staircases that led to the upper floors, a cozy sitting room with a fireplace that stretched nearly to the ceiling. Comfy couches with decadent blankets and pillows. Shelves of books, their spines cracked and fading. The sea stretched out in every direction until I thought I was floating in the middle of it.

I explored the castle for a long time, flitting from room to room, jaw scraping against the stone in absolute wonderment. The kitchen was massive, five times the size of anything I’d ever seen. There was a bread oven tucked beside the stove, a long prep table in the middle of the room made from a pale wood. Above it hung a handful of copper pots and pans. An old ice box sat in the corner tucked next to a refrigerator.

I glanced down at the instructions again, gaze snagging on the date.

Kilmorran Castle was built in the late 1400s and occupied by the Wolfe family, the final and current tenants of the land. The castle had been passed down from generation to generation, sons and daughters maintaining the land and providing support to the little town a ways down the road.

I stared at the kitchen with renewed interest. An entire staff managed this place. There were cooks and housekeepers, footmen and butlers. This was a lord’s estate. Whoever had lived here handled the shipments and deliveries, supplied help and support to the town, showed up when the winters were lean and bellies were empty.

I shivered, a cool breeze kissing up the back of my neck.

The letter assured me the kitchen was functional and I had complete use of it. I eyed the bread maker with trepidation before silently slipping from the room. I climbed the narrow stairs to the top floors, poking my head in each bedroom. There were four in total, stone floors covered by colorful rugs. Only one room had an en suite, and I dropped my bag down on the bed. There’d been renovations to keep it up to code, but the castle still looked like it was hovering in the past.

I looked out the window, staring at the horizon line.

For a moment, I imagined it as it once was, dotted with sails and fishing boats. The dock around the curve of the coast was full of bobbing boats, their masts and sails tucked in tight for the night. The lights from Bracken Bay glimmered in the setting sun and I marveled at the town.

It was quiet here.

No road noise.

No blaring horns or loud laughter.

There was nothing but the sea roaring outside the window.

I unpacked what I could, content to hover in the silence around me. I was about as far away from New York as I could be. My shoulders dropped from my ears, and a tension I hadn’t even known I was carrying finally slipped away from me.

Once I was unpacked and freshened up, I made my way back to the kitchen. It only carried supplies for coffee and tea, which meant I’d need to cross into the little town of Bracken Bay to pick up some supplies.

I crossed through the formal dining room, table set for twenty, and kept moving. The sitting room was comfortable, appointed in dark burgundies and golden fixtures. The study caught my eye as I passed it and I paused, hand hovering over the partially closed door.

It’d been fully open when I went upstairs.

Brow furrowed, I tested the door. The joints swung silently, recently greased.

It was an old house. Drafty in places.

I propped the door back open and continued to move through the castle.

I stuffed the giant key in my purse and slipped my jacket back on. It was a cool night, sea air biting through my layers and touching skin. There was nothing but rolling green as far as I could see. Small stone walls dotted perimeters of farms and property lines, but the houses in the distance blended right into the surroundings. There was nothing to take away from the magnitude that was the Ireland coast.

Tomorrow, I would take my time and walk the gravel road back to town. For tonight, knowing I would have bags to carry, I slipped into my rental instead. Yellow headlights cut through the dark and I bumped along the road back to town.

There was something about being someplace new. Somewhere where no one knew you. There was no pressure. No lingering impressions. No hidden secrets. I was just a face—one they would eventually forget.

Bracken Bay was a rainbow of color. The houses and shops were slanted into each other, blues and reds and oranges fading together. Boats bobbed in the harbor, golden light flickering over their sleeping frames. Gulls cried, swooping low for a bite of dinner. I managed to find a spot to park, tucking the car into a sleeping alleyway. The cobblestone beneath my feet was slanted and crooked but I managed to navigate my way down the hill.

The door to the pub on my right opened, sending a riot of music into the air. The rising sounds of the fiddle swept over me and I paused, glancing through the windows inside. A band took up a small stage in the very front, instruments and hands moving at a lightning pace. The bar was full, crowds of people leaning against the dark wood to order another round or fighting to be heard over the noise. Every table was full, boots stomping along to the music.

For a moment, I ached to go inside.

To find an empty spot at the bar and pretend I belonged to all the warmth and life hovering just inside the door.

Instead, I stepped away.

My stomach growled, reminding me of my mission.