But it’d been hard enough just to recover from her upset of the previous afternoon. Kris had been forced to literally drag her down to dinner. The big circular room beneath the Round Drawing Room that once housed the billiards room had been converted into a small restaurant. He’d bravely sampled the local favorites while she essentially drank her dinner, downing pint after pint until he hauled her back up to their room.
Mikah woke that morning in the bed, bemused by the impression of a male body next to her. Though she and Kris had shared a bed dozens of times, she’d been devastated that he was the one there, and in the hours since had determined that this whole trip was adding up to be the worst move of her entire life.
“Pay attention,” her friend hissed as the first items were brought out. And Mikah did, watching as the contents of Cuilean were sold off to the highest bidder. One by one, they were rolled through a side door that connected to the long hallway of the nursery, where she guessed the items had been collected before the sale today. Most of them she recognized, but there were others she didn’t dating from the years following Hero’s death.
Unwittingly, she sighed and moaned over every item until Kris nudged her in the side. “You sound like a sick cow. If you’re going to throw up, please go somewhere else.”
She scowled at him but managed to keep her grief to herself after that as the items continued to go by. Smaller items would be sold that day and the following. The furnishings and larger items were to be sold the following day with a walking group that would go to the items rather than moving them here.
When the music box she and Ian had danced to came up on the auction block, Mikah bid zealously. The price went up and up until she fell in defeat to a persistent buyer in the front row. Dozens of lots were sold off in similar fashion while she stewed with resentment. She could’ve gone higher, but there were other things she wanted more. The morning dragged on. Lot after lot presented, described and sold. She bid on small items but never seemed to win them. In years of attending auctions, she’d never seen buyers so determined.
From the pleased look on the owner’s face, the bidding went much higher than was anticipated. Mr. Smith, the owner, had introduced himself the night before Mikah had gotten too sloshed for civility. A likeable old man with ruddy cheeks and a balding head, she was glad he was making money hand over fist. Every one else though…she wanted to climb over the crowd and pummel the people outbidding her.
Then Mongin’sVue de Marlywas brought in.Herpainting. Again she bid furiously, determined to win it, pushing the bid upward until almost all of her years of savings and a good hunk of her 401Kwere obligated. But she won it. Perhaps the other bidders finally just let her have it out of pity. More likely, her demented brandishing of her card scared them off.
Either way, it was hers. Again.
Her demonic spending on that single item left her with little funds to spend on others. As they came and went, she watched with grudging melancholy as they sold to others. Jewelry, dresses from the 1850s through to the 1960s. Furniture, silver, art.
They stopped for lunch and a short break before it all began again. She bid on a few smaller items as well; dropping out when the bid exceeded the amount she had remaining. The rest of the afternoon would see all but the barest bones of the castle sold away. But for the three bedchambers and public rooms that would remain as part of the historical tour once the hotel closed its doors, all the décor—more than a thousand items over three days—was going to go, taking with it the essence of Dùn Cuilean.
That realization found Mikah’s fervor waning into depression. So sad to see it all torn apart, but barring a sudden Powerball windfall, there was no chance of meeting the tens of millions of dollars the castle was worth to keep it whole. It would come apart as easily as Ian and Hero’s dreams of a life together.
“Item two hundred seventy-nine. A cavalry sword belonging to the Third Marquess of Ayr.”
Mikah, whose attention drifted through the last fifty items, pulled out the catalog with a frown. She flipped through the pages until she found it as the auctioneer continued. “The marquess was a major in Her Majesty’s army, serving during the Crimean War. It’s believed he wielded this saber during the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade.”
She snorted at that, only to be shushed by a couple in front of them. She scowled fiercely back. “He wasn’t even there for that.”
“What is it, Mikes?”
“It’s his,” she whispered to Kris. “That’s his sword.”
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t have any money left.”
“I could get it for you,” he offered. “A Christmas present.”
Mikah looked back up at the sword, that little part of Ian Conagham. “No. Thanks anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
Abruptly, she was glad she hadn’t won all of the items she bid on. What was she thinking? Things couldn’t replace what she’d lost. Her hand curled around the ring in her coat pocket. They would forever remind, not soothe.
“I’m sure.”
Perhaps she’d just donate her painting to the museum rather than keeping it. Why did she need a physical reminder of the past if she was going to move on anyway?
On its downward turn in the sky, the sun finally peeked from beneath a layer of clouds and spilled its light across the room as the auctioneer held up another item, tiredly. He looked as run down as Mikah felt. Seeing her life—well, her past life, at least—being sold off had drained her. Knowing that coming to Dùn Cuilean had been utterly futile filled her with melancholy.
She’d changed nothing and only felt worse than she had before.
“Item two-eighty. A portrait of the Third Marchioness of Ayr, painted in 1847,” the auctioneer announced, drawing their attention to the large portrait being carried into the room.
Unaware of the dozens of heads that turned incredulously in her direction and the whispers that followed, Mikah stared at the portrait and recalled how much Hero had disliked it… and conversely, how much it’d meant to Ian.
Enough was enough. “Let’s go.”
