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Casey and I turn to look at her, my curiosity piqued. “Why is she hangin’ on the wall?” Casey asks, tilting his head.

Before Deidre can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes through the room, and a woman appears from the shadows of the doorway. She’s stunning, her beauty so arresting that it’s almost disarming. Her long red hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and her face—her features—strike a chord so deep and chilling that my breath catches in my throat. She’s familiar, I can’t explain how, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“She’s on the wall because I painted it in her honour when she published her first book,” the woman says, her voice smooth and confident.

I blink, trying to process what she just said. “You know her… personally?”

The woman steps closer, a smile curving her lips. “Aye, she’s a dear friend of mine.”

I’m too stunned to speak for a moment. My eyes flicker between the portrait and the woman in front of me, the sensation of familiarity growing stronger by the second.

Deidre steps forward, her expression softening as she glances between us. “Allow me to introduce Amelia Curran,” she says with warmth, though her voice carries a hint of caution.

“Curran?” The name feels heavy on my tongue, as though it carries a significance.

Amelia’s gaze remains fixed on me, her smile fading slightly. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she begins, her voice steady but careful. “So it’s best I just come out and say it.”

The room feels impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken weight.

“Caitríona Sinclair,” she continues, “I am your aunt. My sister, Sarah Curran—she was your mother. Your true mother.”

24

A Name She’ll Never Know

Finn

“Caitríona Sinclair, I am your aunt. My sister, Sarah Curran—she was your mother. Your true mother.”

The words land like a hammer. I stand up straighter, my eyes darting to Triona. She’s frozen, her face pale, her arms moving to cross her middle, as if it’s the only thing that will keep her grounded.

“That’s not… no, that’s not possible,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

Amelia takes another step closer, her eyes never leaving Triona. “It is,” she says gently. “This is going to be a lot to take in.”

Triona looks at Casey, her wide-eyed shock mirrored in his expression. I feel the weight of it, too, the magnitude of what’s just been said pressing down on all of us.

Deidre moves to Triona’s side, her hand resting lightly on her arm. “Let’s sit,” she says softly. “We’ll take this as slow as you need, okay?” Triona nods weakly.

She sinks into the chair, her fingers trembling against the armrests. The room feels heavier now, the air thick with unrelenting tension. Her gaze locks onto Amelia, emotions warring just beneath the surface—betrayal, disbelief, hurt.

But outwardly, she is a portrait of control, her warmth stripped away, leaving only the sharp edges of restraint.

Her voice is flat as she breaks the silence. “Please, just—just start from the beginning, and tell me the whole damn truth.”

Amelia flinches at the sharpness of her words but nods, her gaze softening as if she had steeled herself for this reaction. “All right,” Amelia says finally, her voice trembling. “It might be hard to hear...”

Triona doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. “I don’t think I’ll like it any less than being lied to my whole life.”

Amelia takes a deep breath and starts. “Your mother, Sarah, was my younger sister. Your father, Robert Emmet—he was a man of conviction. A revolutionary. He dreamed of a better world—for Ireland, for all of us. But the Crown didn’t see ideals. They saw defiance. They saw a threat too great to ignore.”

She pauses, her gaze distant. “Men like him have always been cut down for standing up to the wrong people. And women are left behind—bearing the weight of grief and survival. The names change, but the ending doesn’t.”

Amelia turns back to Triona, her voice steady now. “But Robert wasn’t just a revolutionary. He was a teacher, a thinker. He wanted more for the people who’d been crushed under the Crown for centuries. He believed in freedom, equality, justice. And for a while, he thought words might be enough. But words changed nothing, not for the starving families or the children who’d never know a life without chains.” She exhales, as if releasing something heavy.

“He started planning secret meetings and forming quiet alliances. He thought if they could unite, if they could find collective courage, that they could reclaim the country.”

Her voice takes on a darker edge. “But dreams weren’t enough. Careful planning wasn’t enough. In the summer of 1803, Robert led an uprising in Dublin—a fight for freedom against the Crown. Every detail planned, every move calculated, but the night spiraled into chaos.” She swallows hard.