by P. Anastasia
“These defectors were assimilated into the Irish clans, with one of them having a leader of full English blood at their helm. I had read bits and pieces of literature hinting at this secret organization and its raven-haired Chieftain, but all references were completely devoid of names.”
“Are you suggesting that the British group of sympathizers were ghosts?” I asked.
“No. No. I’m saying they hid their identities in order to protect their families and, possibly, their relatives back home. But I’m getting off track here. What I really want to say is that I found evidence of this group, but even though there were no names attached, there was a very distinct symbol used to identify members—a dragon. But, not just any dragon! A three-horned dragon with a rune curled in its tail.”
Her suggestions were outlandish, but…
“You are meant for great things,” my mother had told me, the day I was released to my fate as an indentured servant. The ring was the only thing she had given me to remember my father by. The memories were hazy, but I clung to them with every shred of my being.
“How do you know all this?” I asked. “Were other rings found?”
“That’s just it,” she continued. “Before you contacted me, no one has ever been able to find a ring or signet of any kind. But…” She pulled up a photograph on her phone and turned the screen toward me. “We did find a wax seal on a letter written to the other Chieftains from the defector clan’s leader. Now, if you turned your ring just to the side. Take a look.”
The design embossed in the wax seal looked uncannily familiar. I spun my ring around my finger and studied the engravings on the sides. It was possible the ring was used to make the mark.
“Your ring may be the most important clue in my search to prove the existence of the British defector clan.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Kathera started, “but if this is all he has left of his family, are you saying that his fa—” She stopped herself. “Are you suggesting he may be a descendant of the leader of that clan?”
“Not necessarily, but it is possible,” Eleanor went on. “It’s also possible the ring was stolen, gifted as a token of loyalty, or… if we really want to go there… removed from the Chieftain’s dead body in battle. But, yes, if you want to think of it that way. You could be related.”
“But you haven’t been able to discover the identity of the clan leader, right?” I asked. “The man who supposedly possessed this dragon emblem?”
“Unfortunately, not. But the mere existence of the ring could be enough to prove my theory and that might gain the interest of other historians who could do additional digging.” She laughed to herself in disbelief. “I mean, I could rewrite history with this knowledge.”
“I wish to remain anonymous during your investigation,” I said. “As I have stated prior, this ring is all that remains of my past.”
“Don’t worry,” Kathera said. “The doctor and I have already discussed the confidentiality of this.”
“Oh, yes.” Eleanor straightened up and reached for her tea again. “Your identity is safe. I’ve taken more than enough photos to assist me. You’ve done everything you could. I’m only sorry I don’t have more concrete details for you at this time. The British Chieftain did an excellent job covering his tracks. Even if I never discover his name, at least I can prove he existed.”
That wasn’t exactly what I had hoped to hear.
Eleanor sipped her tea and then cupped it in her lap.
“One more thing,” she added. “Would you show me the painting we discussed, as well?”
“Give me a moment,” I said, standing from the sofa. I entered the next room and retrieved Kathryn’s portrait. Normally I’d have had it displayed on the fireplace mantel, but I had removed it so that I could bring it out in my own time.
“There she is,” Eleanor said, standing as I walked back into the room. A smile of warmth and awe curled her lips. “Could you set it there?” she asked, pointing to the large coffee table between us.
She reached down to the floor and rummaged through a side pocket in her briefcase, retrieving a pair of white fabric gloves.
I gazed at her inquisitively.
“I always carry these. You just never know what you may find, and I don’t want to get dirt or oil on your beautiful painting.”
She lifted it up from the table to take a closer look.
“The paint is in remarkable condition. Very little varnish discoloring. Very few cracks in the oil. Did you have it restored?”
“No.”
“Then this is in some of the best shape I’ve ever seen for a painting of this age. It’s a shame the artist died before he could create a legacy. He was very talented, indeed.”
“When did the artist die?” I asked.
“Not long after he made this, actually. He did one other like it, a few for other elite members of society, and then disappeared for weeks before being found dead in a field just outside Paris.”
“That’s terrible,” Kathera said.
“Did you say there was another like it?” I asked. “Of the same subject? Of Kathryn?”
“Yes, actually. There is one more painting of Kathryn Shallon. It was done post mortem—her mother had it commissioned as a keepsake. It doesn’t have nearly the amount of vibrancy and… life that yours does, however. I have a photo of it on my phone if you’d like to—”
“No.”
“I understand.” Her eyes shifted and she appeared to be hesitating. “Actually, that’s something I wanted to speak to you about. I managed to trace the girl’s lineage and learned that she has living relatives.”
If my heart had still pulsed, it may have skipped a beat.
“How!? She... I thought she was an only child.”
“She was,” Eleanor added. “But after the poor thing committed suicide, her parents had a second child—another girl. Her name was Margery and she went on to marry an English soldier by the name of Edward Hughes. They had many children, though, and the lines of the tree have tangled up quite a bit over the years, but I’ve managed to piece together most of it.”
Something about the tone of her voice and the rapid pitter patter of her nervous heart made me uneasy. She was suspiciously knowledgeable about two very different, but integral, parts of my life.
“Why does her lineage concern you so much?” I asked. “I thought you were only concerned with proving your theory on the British defectors?”
“I-I am.” She put the painting down onto the table and then tugged off the fingers of her gloves one by one. “This is definitely authentic and also highly sought after. I’ve been in contact with someone who is very interested in purchasing this. They are willing to pay you a fair price if—”
“I have no interest in selling it.” A quiet growl vibrated in my throat.
“Would you consider allowing someone to replicate it? A professional reproduction done by a specialist, on canvas. I’m sure the interested party would compensate you for the time and inconv—”
“No.” I stood and retrieved Kathryn’s painting. “I cannot—will not—allow it to leave my residence. You will have to tell your client to look elsewhere.”
It annoyed me that she would propose such a thing. I was under the impression that she was a famed historian, not an art dealer.
I set Kathryn’s painting back on the mantel.
“That painting means a lot to him,” Kathera said softly.
“I see that now,” the doctor replied. “I apologize for being uncouth.”
I turned to face her. She set her tea and saucer onto the side table and checked her phone for the time. Her heartbeat was racing still.
“Well, it is getting quite late,” she said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance so I’ll call a ride and head back to my hotel now.”
“I’ll take care of that for you,” Kathera said, pulling out her phone and launching an app. “You’re welcome to wait here, meanwhile.”
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“Thank you, Kathera,” she said, smiling gratefully. “I hope the information I provided was enough.” She looked back at me.
“It was insightful,” I replied, attempting to force a smile. “Thank you for coming all the way down here to speak with me and my wife about your findings. I do hope the photographs help you prove your theory. If there’s anything else I can do…”
“Thank you.” She stood and picked her briefcase up from the floor. “Thank you for the tea, also.”
“Your driver should be here soon,” Kathera announced, showing the confirmation screen on her phone to the doctor. “Don’t worry about the fare. We’ll take care of it.”
“You two have been so very kind to me.”
“You have been kind to us, too,” Kathera added. “You’ve done so much research.”
“I only wish I had more information about the ring, or a name to place with it, but the Dragon Clan didn’t leave anything behind.”
“Dragon Clan?” The title piqued my interest.
The doctor sighed. “Just me filling in the blanks again.” She grinned and shrugged. “It’s not really an official name. I mainly use it in my notes for reference.”
I reached for the doctor’s teacup and saucer.
“Thank you,” she said.
I took them to the kitchen and set them on the counter.
There was something strange about Eleanor, but I couldn’t place it. An odd sensation had flitted through Kathera, too, as soon as she had entered our home. I had thought it was anticipation, but now it seemed like something else. Nothing about her was particularly extraordinary, but there was no mistaking the strange air of her presence.
A few minutes later, I heard a car pull into the driveway.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said to the doctor, as I returned to the living room.
“You, too,” she replied. “I’ll be staying in town for a few more days to do some sight-seeing. If either of you wish to join me, please don’t hesitate to call or text.” She reached out to put her fingertips on Kathera’s forearm. “Please keep in touch, dear.” Eleanor’s smile was bittersweet.
When Dr. Eleanor pressed her fingers against me, a buzz of energy flitted over my skin like an electrical shock. And each time our eyes met, I gained a sense of comfort from it.
I walked her to our front door and then waited in the doorway for her to get into her ride and drive away. Sadness, and even a sense of loss, crept into my heart as the taillights vanished into the night. Why did saying goodbye to a near-stranger feel so awful?
“She was an interesting woman,” Matthaya said, walking with me back into the main room.
“Yes.”
The unusual feeling churning inside me didn’t cease, not even now that she had left.
“You don’t…” I started, looking over at Kathryn’s painting. I juggled the ridiculous suggestion a bit before saying it out loud. “You don’t think she was the one who wanted to buy the painting, do you?”
Matthaya’s eyes widened and he gazed back at me as if he, too, had suddenly come to the same realization.
“I heard her heart beat faster when she spoke of it,” he said. “Almost as if she was afraid to ask, but compelled to.”
“And I…” I tried to put the feeling into words. “I felt something when she arrived. I don’t know how to describe it, but it was as if she were familiar to me. As if we are… connected in some way.”
“That would explain why she has done so much research on Kathryn’s painting and her family lineage. Kathryn may have been a baron’s daughter, but her stature did not automatically make her a significant historical figure. I’ve done enough research on her, myself, to have learned that. I could not sense the same thing you did, but it pleases me, to know Kathryn has living relatives.”
“I don’t think she could tell, though, do you?”
“Tell what?”
“That we’re… different.”
“I don’t believe so. If anything, she was blinded by excitement over our antiquities.”
“Maybe we could allow her to have just one copy made of Kathryn’s portrait,” I suggested delicately. “It may be as significant to her as it is to you, just for a different reason. You don’t know how long she’s been trying to find it, and she doesn’t have eternity, like you did.”
“You’re right,” he surprised me in reply. “I’ll consider it. I know she doesn’t have all the time in the world, but she will be here for another week. Perhaps you can bring it up later if you decide to meet with her again.”
His thoughtful words brought a smile to my heart. I was hoping to stay in contact with Eleanor, seeing that she and I shared a special link.
“Thank you. I would like that, and it is my hope that I can.”
I approached him and took his hands. “So, how do you feel now that you know a little more about who you are?”
“It’s not definitive, by any means,” he replied.
“I believe it.” I said confidently, squeezing his hand. “Think about it. The ‘raven-haired British Chieftain’ who tried to free Ireland and who sympathized with its people. You said it yourself that your mother believed you were meant for great things. She probably wanted you to carry on his legacy somehow, even after he died in battle.”
“That would mean that I am half English.” His brow furrowed. “All these years, I believed I was—”
“Maybe you and Kathryn had more in common than you realized.” I brushed my thumb over the emerald ring and smiled at him. “You told me yourself that you’d even convinced Prince Eddy to accept the position of Viceroy of Ireland in an effort to promote much of the same cause.”
Matthaya seemed stunned by my ability to string all the details together.
“You really believe the doctor’s theory, then?” he asked.
“I think she’s on to something,” I replied. “I believe it all makes sense, and I absolutely believe that this is who you are. What did she call them? The Dragon Clan.” I rested my hands on his shoulders, knowing that hidden behind his strong frame was a magnificent pair of wings. “I think it perfectly fits who you have become.”
An email from Kieran arrived with details on the tattoo sought by the man inquiring about the apprenticeship earlier. Still at home, I opened it, expecting to see reference images about the design he wanted, but instead found a portfolio of his personal works, followed by a small sub-section about the tattoo. At the top of the email, Kieran implored me to take a look at the man’s work before making the final decision to say no to his inquiry.
Knowing how interested Kieran was in the idea provoked me to consider what it might be like to have an apprentice artist in the shop. It didn’t mean that I had to teach them tattooing—not unless they had wanted to learn—but the thought of having a new artist to collaborate with intrigued me.
When I opened the attachments, I was taken aback. His creature work was intricate, dark, and dramatic; it showed a high level of skill and dedication. I could also see that my style had been a heavy inspiration for him by the way his line work flowed across the page and the dynamic poses used.
When I was a young nobody with a crazy dream of being a tattoo artist, Derek gave me a chance, even though I didn’t have a thread of job experience under my belt.
Maybe it was time for me to pay it forward. Derek had asked me to take care of the place, and I’m sure if he saw this guy’s work, he would have given him a shot.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number that was listed on the email.
He answered quickly.
“Is this Brian?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Kathera from Restless Ink. How are you doing tonight?”
“I-I’m doing great. Thanks.” His voice wavered nervously. “Uh, how are you?”
“I’m fine. I got your message about the tattoo you’re wanting, but I’m actually calling about the portfolio you attached. I�
��m looking over it right now.”
He went silent.
“How long have you been drawing?”
“My whole life, I think. Since I was maybe 6 or 7? I don’t remember, but I know I got into trouble at school when I was little because I was scribbling on everything. My mom got pissed.”
He sounded young, maybe in his late teens, but I didn’t want to make assumptions.
“So why do you want to work with me?” I asked. “And what do you hope to learn?”
“Well, I’ve been self-taught all my life, but I’ve been using your work as inspiration since I was in middle school.”
Looking over the vivid and ferocious wolves and anthropomorphic beings he’d drawn, I could clearly see my influence, even though the subject matter was very different.
“I’m just having trouble finding my personal style,” he continued. “I was hoping you could help me better my techniques and composition. That way, I could concentrate on developing my own style.”
“Your work’s very good,” I commented. “I will admit, I had no plans to bring anyone else onto my team, but I think I could teach you some skills that would help you grow.”
I heard him gasp.
“You sound like a smart guy who knows what he wants to accomplish, and you persevered even after I said no. Your portfolio has definitely changed my perception, so thank you for having the courage to send that to me.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for your kind words about my art. Th-that really does mean a lot to me.”
“Could you come by tomorrow afternoon? Maybe after 1 p.m. so we can discuss the details of your apprenticeship. Does that work for you?”