"There are signal boosters all over this mansion, Aubrey," Liam informs me, popping his head out from under the desk in the study next to my bedroom.

He was kind enough to crawl under the large desk to make sure that all the cables leading from the wall were securely in place, even though the booster stationed on a shelf on a bookcase in the corner of the room had all its little green lights on, some of them flickering annoyingly.

I've set my laptop up on the desktop to charge since the battery was running low, but I cannot connect to the WiFi properly, no matter how many times I try. My phone is doing a little bit better, but the signal bars remain low.

"There's nothing wrong with the booster. For some reason, the signal has always been sketchy in the wings. There are too many things interfering with it. Mirrors, glass, masonry, timber, furniture, things like that. The strength fluctuates. Sometimes, you'll be able to connect from here just fine for hours, and then it will just drop off again. The main body of the house where the offices are is the only area with a consistently strong signal. I'm sorry about that. It's fickle at best up here."

"All these tunnels might have something to do with it too," I suggest, watching him lithely get to his feet, dusting his hands and the knees of his trousers.

"Probably," he shrugs. "I guess when the house and all its extensions were built, the possibility of WiFi in the centuries to come was not taken into account. That was an oversight."

He almost sounds as if he means that!

"Are you sure there are no secret doors in here?" I ask the question I know I've asked him more than once already. When we entered the study, I opened the thick bottle-green and gold curtains covering the wall of windows at the bottom of the long room, flooding the interior with some welcome light. It's not enough to expel all the shadows, especially as three walls have no windows. All the furniture is dark and rather heavy, and thick timber beams support the ceiling. There are many paintings in here and a fireplace, which is a feature present in almost all the rooms I've seen this far.

I try really hard not to think about the possibility of connected chimneys and flues providing even more clandestine routes. The last thing I need to worry about is unwanted visitors coming at me from a fireplace.

Oh! Too late!

"Yes, I'm quite sure," Liam assures me without any sign of irritation. In the hours I've spent with him today, I've come to realise just how kind and patient he is.

I don't see any Turner paintings, but my eyes keep on pulling my attention to the painting of the two Doyle children in the same way your tongue tends to worry a sore spot in your mouth, unable to let it be until the pain is all you can think of.

Each time I look at the innocent faces of the children, I'm reminded of what happened to them, and my heart lurches painfully, a lump forming in my throat. I cannot stand the images trying to crowd my mind to tell their story; an aversion to the horror they'd been through floods my stomach, making me queasy.

"Not even behind them?" I ask, my voice sounding a bit dry and breathless in my ears.

"Yes," Liam assures me, and after giving me a concerned look, he crosses to the painting and lifts an entire section of the heavy frame away from the wall. "See, it's not attached at all."

"Oh..." He is right; the paintings I've dealt with that were hiding doors were not removable from the walls; they formed part of an intricate locking system unseen behind them and were firmly secured in place.

"What's wrong, Aubrey?" he asks, moving to stand beside me when I don't look as happy and relieved about the revelation as he was expecting. "Don't you like the painting?"

"No," I admit, crossing my arms to hide the slight shiver running through my body.

"Really?" he says, looking up at the offending painting with a frown between his brows. "Do you prefer landscapes and still lives, or is it children, in general, you're not too fond of?"

"No, it's not that," I say with a soft laugh. It's probably very rude to tell someone you don't like a painting that's been in their possession for over 300 years. "The painting is rather beautiful. I don't know the artist, but their technique and ability to capture emotions and faces were remarkable. I just find the subject matter truly morbid."

"Why?" He asks, baffled, once again looking up at the painting, his eyes running almost affectionately over the faces of the two children holding onto each other. "It's two children who loved each other dearly and are hugging rather fondly. It's sweet."

When he puts it like that, my revulsion doesn't make any sense at all.

"Yes, that is true," I agree. "If I didn't know about their tragic story, I would've loved the painting, but every time I look at it, I'm reminded of what happened to them. I know it's silly; it all happened 100s of years ago, after all, but looking into those innocent faces and seeing those large eyes... it just breaks my heart."

I'm mortified when my voice starts to wobble and I hurry to turn away from the painting, crossing the floor to the windows, putting some distance between myself and the sadness. It doesn't really matter that the WiFi is patchy in here; I wouldn't be able to stand being in here for long anyway, not with that painting haunting me the entire time.

If I did work in here every day, I would probably eventually become desensitized to the painting, but I'd rather not become numb and unfeeling to the ordeal of young children and the horrors that befell them.

"You're sad for them?" Liam asks, a slight smile touching his lips when I glance at him over my shoulder. He doesn't seem to be amused; he seems surprised and warmed by the idea.

"Don't you?" I ask, returning my attention to the window, where I can see a stone pond with a beautiful fountain held up by nymph-like girls with garlands draped between them. All the sections of the complex gardens visible from up here are extremely well maintained, with exquisite attention to detail given to every flowerbed and every statue. It is a pity that so few photographs of these stunning gardens are available online. I don't think many people have had the pleasure of seeing them.

"Yes," Liam sighs, joining me at the window, his elbow lightly brushing my bicep when he crosses his arms. "I feel sad for who they were in their lives before that painting. I feel sad for them because of life in general with all its pain, but I don't feel sad for those two kids in that painting at that moment in their lives because, at that time, they were as happy as any person could ever be."

I turn away from the window where the rain has once again let up, leaving the world draped in a layer of sparkling diamonds glistening in the late afternoon sun. My eyes find Liam's face, and he seems to be quite sincere. He is not just trying to placate or soothe me.

"What do you mean? Wasn't the little boy chopped up and fed to pigs? Who knows what happened to that little girl... It is horrible!" I hated saying those words out loud, and, glancing over at the painting, I feel oddly apologetic to them for just blurting out the details of their ordeal so crassly.

Liam's lips tighten, and he swallows, slowly nodding his head. "They certainly went through hell. There's no denying that," he agrees hoarsely, and his eyes burn into mine. "They were never quite the same, but they survived, Aubrey. Both of them."

"What?" I look at the painting again, the haunted looks on the children's faces, as if fear had become so entrenched in them, it was permanently etched on their sweet features. "They didn't die?"

"Not in 1745, no," he assures me. "They posed for that painting."

"But... what about the statue in the park?" I frown, looking up into Liam's face. "Billy said Mairead was never found, and only two boys were rescued from the pig farmer... I cannot remember their names, but neither was Uilliam Doyle."

"They were never the same," Liam repeats, gazing into my eyes with an intensity as if he is willing me to understand what he's trying to tell me. "The Slatherties kept them here in this mansion. They took care of them."

"They really survived?" I'm completely baffled now, but a smile is touching my lips, and I once again look at the painting, trying to see the truth of Liam's words there. It's a painting, not a photograph, and in it, neither of the children has any signs of injuries, old or new. I won't be able to find any answers there. "Why did they let their family believe that they were dead?"

That seems awfully cruel to me. According to Billy, their father was a piece of work, but their siblings loved them and were heartbroken.

"No, they knew, but it was kept quiet."

"Why?" My confusion is growing, and so is Liam's discomfort.

"They were never-"

"The same, yes, I heard you, but I don't know what that means!" I snap, glaring at him, surprised by my flaring irritation and uncharacteristic aggression. I'm not normally this forceful or rude. I regret my outburst, watching Liam rub a hand through his thick, wavy hair, turning his face away and gazing out into the gardens, stretching into the distance to where the low wall separates it from the forest.

The view from every window of the mansion is breathtaking, and I could sit and stare at it for hours without getting bored, but right now, I would rather hear a decent answer to my question.

"They were injured..." Liam finally says with a slow breath. "They needed special care their family was not able to give them, so they lived here as part of the family. They often saw their siblings. They were happy, Aubrey. Their story did not end in that hellish time."

Pushing myself away from the windowsill, I move closer to the painting, gazing up at it with new eyes. This is definitely a painting of two traumatised children, but unless the artist was just being careful of what details to provide, they do seem healthy and well cared for. Hearing that they survived is truly heartening. I hope the troubling emotions saturating the eyes of these children, especially the little boy's cleared up with time. Perhaps the artist was just being fanciful, and their eyes weren't this tormented at all.

I remember Billy telling me that the one boy saved from the pig farmer took years to speak again, and the other one threw himself off the cliffs.

"Why didn't the Slatherties take the other two boys in as well? Didn't they need special care too?"

"They had good parents, capable of caring for them every bit as well as the duke could. Everybody had many regrets at the time, Aubrey. Nobody thought that Timmy would choose to end his own life. It shook the entire community, including the Duke and his family.

"Did they take in any of the other missing girls? What about the babies?"

"Not everybody survived that horrible time," Liam mutters. He has turned his back to the window, and in the light shining past his broad shoulders, his hair is aflame with sunset colours. Moving away from the window, he joins me in front of the painting and places his hands on my shoulders, gently squeezing them.

"If you cannot stand to look at this painting, I'll have it swapped."

"No, I feel better now, knowing that at least these two children survived," I assure him, biting my lip and glancing from the painting to Liam and back. "Are there other paintings of them? Ones where they at least appear to be happier?"

"Uhm..." he tilts his chin up, thinking about it, and suddenly, I'm fascinated by the slant of his neck, following it with my eyes to the junction where the supple contours disappear into the collar of his shirt. "Yes. There were a few others over the years. Children don't generally enjoy posing for paintings... it's tedious," he chuckles, the sound cascading warmly over my heart. "I'll see what I can find."

"Thank you."

Leaving the brother and sister embracing on the wall, we turn off the light and exit the study, crossing the hallway to enter the drawing room. The warmth of gold, yellow and white envelopes me immediately and even with the sheer parts of the drapes closed, the room is still more airy and filled with light than the study was with its thick curtains wide open.

The warm and fuzzy feelings of being safe and happy take a sudden dive when Liam crosses to the back wall and opens a corridor behind a painting by Jean-Honoré Fragonard - an 18th-century French Painter - that reminds me very strongly of his famous painting 'The Swing'.

Jean-Honoré Fragonard - The Swing - About 1767-8

My mind is reeling, astounded by the number of unknown masterpieces by famous artists I'm discovering in this mansion. The Slatherties are sitting on a gold mine, both in terms of money and historical value.

I've noticed the painting the couple of times I've been in here, but I haven't truly looked at it yet. There are too many pretty things in here, but I was going to get to it. It is a rather frivolous, colourful, whimsical painting of a girl with long red hair running around in a section of the garden I glimpsed when I went to the garage with Leopold.

Did all these famous artists spend time here? The idea blows my mind!

"I think this one leads down to the kitchen," Liam tells me, leaning into the dark tunnel. "I'm not 100% sure."

"I'm not that desperate for coffee," I assure him when he seems about to go inside and verify. Laughing, he closes the door and calls me closer, guiding my fingers to find the trigger to lock it.

"Mairead playing with geese, 1768," I read the inscription beneath the painting after admiring the brushwork and colours from up close, and Liam's face lights up in surprise.

Mairead Playing with Geese, 1768 - a completely fictional painting definitely not painted by Jean-Honoré Fragonard.

"Oh! Yes! That's right! That is indeed Merry Doyle... playing with geese," he smirks. "I don't think she posed for it, though."

I'll have to take his word for it as all I see is a girl in beautiful peach frills and petticoats running in water and... yes, there are some geese. It is a playful painting, pretty in a fairy tale illustration way, but it could be any girl with long, curly red hair. In 1768, Mairead would've been around 36 years old if my calculations are correct. It's impossible to correctly guess the age of the young woman in the painting, but if that is Merry Doyle and she is cheerfully playing with geese in a beautiful garden at the age of 36, then I'm happy.

Turning away from the painting, I find Liam some distance away, brushing the tips of his fingers over the old piano, tracing the delicate outlines of the carvings. I'm once again mesmerized by his beautiful hands and the grace with which he moves. I honestly need to go see a doctor...

Not Liam!

I've never been this overly aware of people before in my life. Usually, I'm mildly irritated by their presence. Today, I feel like I have a fever, and I long to reach out and touch him whenever he comes within a couple of feet of me. His kiss earlier went a long way to satisfy my strange urges, but I can feel them building again. I need to have a long soak in the bath. My nerves are probably shot.

"Can you play?" I ask him, and he glances up at me, his melancholic expression fading from his face. What was he thinking about so deeply? I can feel a bottomless well of grief and sorrow radiating from this man, and my heart reacts to it in a very primal way. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him until his pain fades. Which is a ridiculous idea, I know.

What could it be that is causing him such pain? I saw the same look on his face earlier when he mentioned his sister. Did she used to play the piano?

"Oh, yes, I'm frightfully good at it," he informs me, surprising me with his uncharacteristic lack of humility. He suddenly sounded just like Ransford!

"Well, go ahead!" I chuckle in response to his joyful smile. "I'd love to hear you play."

He must be starved for an audience because he doesn't hesitate; he eagerly sits on the rectangular bench, patting the seat beside him for me to join him. Which I do, wondering who this animated creature is. The Liam I got to know is rather subdued and calm... unless he's playing with his train set...

I watch him open the lid, remove the long piece of felt protecting the keys and drape it on top of the piano before he flexes his fingers and delicately places them on the keys. After a couple of sweet, lingering, tentative notes, he attacks the keys with a passion I would never have believed him capable of. I stare at him in shock and wonder... mostly, I'm wondering what the hell kind of music this is!

He rumbles on the keys in the bass clef region and twinkles on the treble keys on the right side of the key bed, and the melody - if there is one - seems to switch between dark and light at random. There is no rhyme or reason to it that I can detect. When the last note finally reverberates and fades in the startled air of the room - even Merry and her geese have fled from the noise, and all the cherubs have gone into hiding - I don't know whether to laugh, cry or applaud. I choose the latter to be polite and because I'm rather glad it is over.

"That was... your own composition?" I ask cautiously, trying really hard not to show how appalled I am.

"I think it was a Concerto in D Minor... or something..." he tells me, with wide, earnest eyes.

"Mozart?" I frown, pretty sure it's not... unless I know the composer's work even less than I thought I did. I think Mozart composed pieces with fun names like that.

"Probably not," Liam chuckles, giving me a guilty look. "I cannot play the piano at all," he admits, and after blinking at him for a few utterly confused seconds, I toss my head back and laugh. Playing with the trains has apparently unlocked the mischievous boy hiding inside Liam.

"Now that is just a lie!"

We both turn, still sniggering and chortling, whipping the tears of laughter from our eyes, startled to hear a voice from the door we'd left open. Ransford strolls inside, squinting at us in the brightness after the gloom of the hallway. His hair shines silvery in the playful light, and he looks as well-groomed and effortlessly charming in his dusky gold shirt as he always does. I can hear my nerve endings increase their incessant humming to an all-new pitch as I watch him walk down the length of the room to reach us. He stops beside the bench and lightly touches my shoulder, sending a flickering jolt through my entire body.

"Scoot over," he orders and helps me to do so by unceremoniously sliding me along the bench when I protest that there's not enough room for all three of us. "Of course there is."

"Ran..." Liam says, looking panicked now and ready to get up and run away.

"Don't 'Ran' me," Ransford sniffs. "Get your hands up, Sir."

Chuckling, Liam shrugs and places his hands on the keys on the lefthand side of the key bed. Apparently, he will be in charge of the bass clef, while Ransford will abuse the notes in the treble clef section. Am I going to survive this onslaught on my eardrums?

"Are you going to play chopsticks?" I ask apprehensively, really not looking forward to this performance, and when Ransford gives me a haughty look, making a soft scoffing sound, I giggle, moving a little closer to Liam.

I gaze at Ransford's long tapered fingers, finding their places on the ivory keys, and when he plays his first note, it triggers Liam to start playing simple chord runs in a loop while Ransford intermittently plays the same note. It almost sounds like music!

When Ransford finally starts to play a melody using both his hands, I'm soon gaping at the keys working in front of me in a way I've never experienced before. Together, they are building an enchanting melody. Liam mostly does chord runs and a few filler notes while Ransford carries the melody, embellishing it with fingers that fly like butterflies over the entire range of the key bed, crossing over Liam's hands at intervals.

During a lull in the melody where Liam is once again playing peaceful chords, Ransford suddenly takes my right hand and places it on the keys, gently prompting my fingers to play a few notes in a loop, helping me get the timing right and once he is satisfied that I have my four notes going well, he picks up the melody again, and I'm stunned and delighted by the dramatic effect my humble notes are adding to their beautiful composition.

When we finally remove our hands from the piano keys, I'm laughing again, this time, because I'm feeling breathless and exhilarated. I've never experienced something like that before.

"That was wonderful!" I tell them. "Do you often play together like that? You're awfully good!"

"Way too often," Liam snorts, replacing the felt lining over the keys and closing the fallboard.

"I don't think we've done it this century," Ransford says in a sulky voice, making me chuckle. This guy! Well, this century hasn't been all that long yet, so it's possible. For people who haven't practised in over 20 years, they certainly are outstanding. Also, if they haven't played it yet this century, it would mean that they were both around ten years old the last time they played together. I know Ransford is just saying things again, spewing nonsense; at least, I hope so. They seemed to enjoy playing together; it would be sad if they hadn't done it for over two decades.

"Oh, Liam! I actually came to tell you that there's a delivery from the clinic for you to take care of," Ransford suddenly remembers the purpose of this visit and Liam hurries to his feet, nearly causing the seat to tip over. Fortunately, Ransford has quick reflexes and places an arm around my waist, scooting over to the centre with me to balance the bench.

"Let me know if you need anything, Aubrey and thanks for playing with me," Liam says with a warm smile, and I feel a deep wave of regret, as I watch him stride to the door. Before I can call out and thank him in reply, Ransford looks at me with raised eyebrows, demanding my attention. His face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath stir whisper-softly against my skin.

"You played with Liam?" he frowns. "Are you going to play with me too? I know many fun... games..."

"I believe I just did," I assure him, and when he narrows his eyes, I hurry to add. "We played with the trainset. We also had to save the town's inhabitants from a severe outbreak of a rather startling plague that had them falling down all over the place."

"No! Don't spoil the fun!" Ransford exclaims, looking almost convincingly distraught. "Those people need all the love they can get."

He is teasing me, but there's a strange note in his voice, and when I lift my eyes to look at him, his eyes are filled with thousands of moving shadows gliding over the iridescent irises.

"I haven't heard him laugh like that in ages," he tells me with a sad little smile.

"Why?"

For a moment, I think he's not going to answer me; he just quietly gazes at me, his eyes alive with his thoughts, and then he shrugs. "Life doesn't generally offer all that much to laugh about."

I cannot argue with that.

The silence grows as we sit quietly looking at each other, the air between us alive with words and thoughts tumbling over each other, getting tangled and dragging at the edges of my consciousness.

The awareness I had, stirred by Liam's presence and nuances, his every move and breath, seems to be amplified now. With Liam, it felt as though it was all just coming from me, boiling at a slow burn, setting my mind thrumming along with my heartbeat, but now, there is a definite pull, dragging me towards Ransford as if the same awareness is simmering in him too. I can feel my heart quicken and my breath catching in my throat.

Gazing into his luminous eyes, I gasp when, without warning, my mind and senses fill with searingly bright, vivid visions teeming with sensations and emotions I do not understand. Suddenly, I can feel Ransford's cool skin against my lips. I can hear his pulse quicken and smell his blood roaring in his veins.

I choke on a liquid drizzling down my throat, igniting a fire in every cell in my body, slowly bringing me to life, driving away the darkness encroaching at the edges of my vision and dulling the burning pain at my throat.

The taste is familiar, and yet it is strange. It soon overwhelms my senses as I swallow the liquid, assuaging the craving curling in my gut. As air fills my lungs and tears dry from my eyes, I become increasingly aware of Ransford's eyes, like backlit mirrors burning into mine.

He is in terrible pain! I can feel it; it's increasing as mine floats away, passing into him. Somewhere outside of my line of vision, a man is screaming hoarsely, and another is trying to soothe him.

Despite his pain, Ransford's voice is calm and gentle, coaxing me to breathe, to drink, to live, and as my strength returns to my body, my hands rise, and my fingers curl desperately in the soft fabric of his sleeve.

I can hear him groan.

"Aubrey?" It's the same voice but with a different, more alarmed tone. He is no longer in pain.

Gasping, I blink my eyes, swatting away the gentle fingers touching my cheek. I'm still sitting on the piano bench, and Ransford is looking at me with a troubled expression on his face.

Did he see it too? Did he hear it too? What was that?!

Feeling dizzy and disorientated, I shift away from him, escaping his worried hands and jump to my feet, holding onto the piano for a second as a wave of darkness crashes over me.

"Aubrey?"

I turn to look at Ransford, so many questions hovering on my lips, ready to be asked. The moment my lips part to say the words, they evaporate into soundless air and a thick mist floats into my brain, obliterating the memory or vision or whatever it was. For a few seconds, I try to grab onto its echoes, but it fades too fast, and finally, I'm just staring blankly at Ransford, no longer sure what has me so riled up.

All that remains is my rapid heartbeat, thrumming in sync with his. I can taste his intoxicating fragrance on my lips as I breathe him in. The pull I felt towards him has been replaced by a gentle resistance as if he's pushing back against my screaming nerve endings and the yearning mercilessly dragging me towards him.

Shaking my head, trying to clear it of thoughts that have no mooring and emotions that cannot find their home, I move away from the piano.

"I... I need to get to work," I mutter, stumbling to the door on unsteady legs, relieved when he doesn't resist my flight or make any move to follow me.

~~~