Fun fact: Ransom is an ex-FBI agent, and I always welcome any surveillance he likes to focus in my direction, especially behind closed doors.
“So, Rex,” I begin, preparing to launch into my carefully planned interrogation about the Crimson Key Society. “I’ve been hoping to chat with you about?—”
“Bess,” he interrupts smoothly. “I was wondering if you’d like to explore the castle grounds together? Away from the crowds? I know all the best spots for photography.”
The tourist line might as well have disappeared. Bess looks like someone just offered her the keys to paradise and threw in a lifetime supply of chocolate as a bonus.
“I’d love to,” she breathes, and I watch thirty-plus minutes of careful line-waiting strategy evaporate faster than morning mist over the Irish countryside.
“But Bess!” I protest as she starts gathering her things as if she’s about to make a jailbreak. “We’ve been waiting in line for over half an hour! This is your chance to kiss the Blarney Stone!”
“Oh honey,” she gives a guttural laugh, “I’ve got better places to put my lips.”
I gasp at the implications. “Okay, ignoring that disturbing visual, think about what you’re giving up here! This ancient chunk of limestone could give you the gift of eloquence—not that you need it. Persuasive speech abilities—you already argue like a seasoned lawyer. Legendary charm—which, let’s face it, you’ve weaponized into an art form. And the ability to talk your way out of anything, which would definitely come in handy the next time we have to explain our latest disaster to ship security.”
“I’ll see you girls later!” Bess waves dismissively as Rex escorts her away from the line like a good-looking pirate absconding with treasure.
“She’ll be doing some smooching, all right,” Nettie observes dryly. “Just not with ancient rocks.”
I sigh with the weight of investigative opportunities dissolving before my eyes. “So much for grilling him for all he knows. I’ll have to catch him later—if I can pry him away from Bess long enough to form a complete sentence.”
“Judging by that look in his eyes, he’s not going anywhere.”
“Nettie,” I say as we watch Bess and Rex disappear into the crowd like romantic smoke. “You don’t think she’s going to want to leave the ship permanently for him, do you?”
Nettie’s mouth falls open in horror that could register on seismic equipment. “We need to throw him overboard before it’s too late. Everyone knows you don’t break up the Three Musketeers without finding yourself sleeping with the fishes. It’s an unwritten law of female friendship—violate it at your own peril, and his peril involves a very long drop into very cold water.”
“Trixie! Nettie!”
We turn to see Candy bouncing toward us with her usual sugar-sweet enthusiasm, her blonde hair practically glowing in the Irish sunlight. She’s wearing a green sweater that readsLucky to be Irish (Today)and a smile that could powerDublin for a week.
“Mind if I cut in line?” she asks with the kind of infectious charm that makes reasonable people make unreasonable decisions. “I got separated from my group, and I promise I’m excellent line entertainment.”
“The more the merrier,” Nettie declares, making room. “But I should warn you, we’re down one musketeer today. Bess has been abducted by a silver fox with questionable intentions.”
“Romantic abduction is the best kind,” Candy giggles, settling in beside us. “So, are we really going to smooch that big rock? I mean, after thousands of people have put their lips on it?”
“The things we do for legendary eloquence,” I mutter, watching the line inch forward with the speed of geological formation.
The castle looms above us, its ancient stones holding secrets that probably make our current murder mystery look like a minor social inconvenience. Narrow spiral staircases wind upward through stone corridors that echo with centuries of footsteps, while arrow slits in the walls offer glimpses of the Irish countryside that probably haven’t changed much since medieval times.
“This is it,” Nettie announces as we finally reach the stone chamber. “Time to pucker up for history.”
The Blarney Stone sits embedded in the castle’s battlements, requiring visitors to lie backwards and hang upside down to plant their lips on centuries of geological legend. The process involves more acrobatics than romance, with safety attendants helping tourists navigate the backwards lean that brings new meaning to the phrase “taking a leap of faith.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to French kiss a rock,” I mutter, watching other tourists scream their way through the experience with varying degrees of dignity intact.
“At least buy it dinner first,” Nettie quips, which gets us dirty looks from the more traditional tourists nearby.
One by one, we take our turns hanging backwards over the castle wall with nothing but iron bars and a hundred-foot drop between us and becoming a cautionary tale, pressing our lips to stone that’s been kissed by everyone from world leaders to people who probably should have stayed home—like me. Have I mentioned the vertigo-inducing drop between sanity and that stone?
The adrenaline rush combines with thoughts about germs, historical significance, and whether eloquence is worth potential plague to create an experience that’s equal parts spiritual and terrifying. Mostly terrifying.
“Well, that was either the most romantic thing I’ve ever done or the most unsanitary,” Candy declares as we make our way back down the spiral staircase, our legs shaky from adrenaline and possibly ancient Irish magic.
“Knowing my luck, probably both,” I reply, just as movement near the castle grounds catches my eye.
There, standing by the gift shop like a walking advertisement for marital complications, is Mark Sterling with his infamous forehead tattoo. He’s deep in conversation with a woman I don’t recognize—tall, elegant, with the kind of expensive coat that suggests she didn’t buy it at the castle gift shop.
