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Keeping my mouth shut, I follow her into the corridor, where she stops abruptly and turns to the door directly to the left of us. “After you,” she beams.
When I regard her with suspicion, which I’m quite right to do given the circumstances of me being in this museum in the first place, she wiggles her eyebrows in encouragement. With a grumble on my lips, I push open the door, revealing a large, open-plan room.
Filled to the brim with antiques.
I flash Orna an awkward grin. “Great, more antiques to stare at?”
What’s that expression again? Too much of a good thing, that’s it. I love antiques, but when you’re locked in a room with them for almost twenty-four hours a day, they seem to lose their magic.
“Yeah, but look—” she wades towards the heap, pulling off dust sheets with a newfound enthusiasm. Then she holds up a mantelpiece clock, not dissimilar to how Rafiki holds up Simba inThe Lion King,and a spring pops out and disappears into the pile. Next, she grabs a mirror, flashing it towards me so I can see the broken glass and my scruffy reflection. “I call this place the graveyard. Anything Lorcan’s broken in a fit of anger comes to die here.” She raises an eyebrow, flashing me a knowing smirk. “A lot of the stuff has been broken in transit too.” With force that makes the antique-lover in me shudder, she nudges a Venetian lamp resting against the wall with the toe of her sneaker. “He used to travel the world and collect things, you know? Before…” she trails off, biting her bottom lip.
Before his family was killed. Before he had to take on some real responsibility.
I clap my hands together and say, “Well, this is cool. Thanks for showing me.”
Orna picks up on my less-than-enthusiastic tone and lets out a little chortle. “I’m not finished yet!” As she pushes past me she catches my hand, pulling me out of the room and down the corridor. “Here,” she kicks open the last door to reveal an even larger room.
I step into the space and take a moment to drink it in. In the center sits a large worktable, the surface finished with grid lines and a built-in woodcutter. On the back wall, there’s a row of every tool imaginable—pliers, hacksaws, sanders—and on the left, there’s a floor-to-ceiling unit, full to the brim of paints, varnishes, and stains.
I struggle to find words. Instead, I slowly pace the room, touching every surface, every tool, to see if I’m dreaming.
“Lorcan had it set up a few hours ago,” Orna says, eyes sparkling as she follows me around the room. “He said you like to restore things, and well… there’s a lot to be restored around here.”
Yeah, like my heart breaking into a million pieces.
It can’t handle such a nice gesture. In fact, it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Concern creases her brow. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I love it,” I mutter, sucking in my breath. “I’m just… overwhelmed.”
She beams back at me. “It’s nice to see you like this. So happy, I mean. Oh—” I turn just as she’s fishing something from the pocket of her apron.
I recognize the thick cream envelope and the intricate wax seal immediately. She passes it to me and I grumble, “The last time I received one of these, it contained the worst news of my life.”
But Orna falls back, letting me scan through the letter, my heart slamming against my chest.
Miss Murphy,
I won’t be around for a while. Business.
Perhaps you can make yourself useful by doing some restoration.
Lorcan.
P.S. Don’t even think about hiding any of the tools. I’ll be conducting a very thorough frisk search when I next see you.
A ripple of pleasure tears through my body at the thought of Lorcan’s hands all over my body.
“Jesus, you look like you’ve won the lottery.”
Glancing up at Orna’s amused smirk, I realize I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I laugh and shake my head, folding the letter along its crease. Before I can stuff it into the breast pocket of my nightshirt, she swipes it out of my hand.
“No!” I shriek.
