Chapter 7

The journey to Callahan’s mansion was indeed a steep climb, the path winding through a cemetery of dust-covered graves. Each grave was a silent sentinel, a grim reminder of the lives that had been claimed by the Dry Rot. The sun beat down on them with a relentless ferocity, the heat a stark contrast to the coldness of the shadows cast by the headstones. The graves stretched out in a macabre procession, a testament to the town’s tragic history.

The house loomed above them, a monolith of decay that had once been a bastion of wealth and power. Its grandeur was now a faded memory, the once-white paint peeling away to reveal the bones of the wooden structure beneath. The windows were shuttered, the doors hanging open on rusted hinges, beckoning them into the shadowy depths of the past.

They approached with caution, the crunch of their boots on the gravel path echoing through the silent streets. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, the very essence of the town’s tragic history. As they climbed the creaking steps, Sue’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her like a heavy yolk.

The door to the mansion groaned open, revealing a world frozen in time. The foyer was a mausoleum of forgotten opulence, the chandelier above them a cobweb-covered crown that had once cast a warm glow upon the riches that had flowed through these halls. The dust danced in the shafts of light that pierced the gloom, each mote a silent witness to the greed and despair that had brought about the town’s downfall.

Expensive, ornate furniture lined the walls, the fabric of the couches and chairs a faded testament to the tapestries of wealth that had once adorned them. The wood was carved with intricate patterns, the craftsmanship evident despite the layers of dust that had settled into the grooves like the wrinkles of a forgotten lover. Each piece whispered a tale of opulence, of a time when the Callahan family had hosted grand parties that had shaken the very foundations of the house with laughter and revelry.

They moved from room to room, their boots echoing through the hollow halls. Sue’s heart was in her throat as she checked each drawer, her hands trembling as they brushed against the dusty surfaces. The house was a tomb, the remnants of a life left to the mercy of the desert’s ravages. Yet, amidst the decay, there was a sense of purpose, a hint of something more.

It was in the study, a room that reeked of leather and dust, that Smokes’s eyes fell upon a finely crafted colt, gleaming in the shadows. The gun was nestled in a velvet-lined case, the fabric faded but the weapon itself unblemished by time. The metal was cool to the touch, the weight of it speaking of power and protection. His hand closed around the grip, and he felt a surge of energy coursing through him.

The study was a treasure trove of forgotten documents and dusty tomes, the pages yellowed with age. But amidst the chaos, there was something that stood out—a map, rolled and tied with a frayed ribbon. Sue’s eyes widened as she spotted it, her breath catching in her throat. “Could this be it?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thunderous silence that had settled over the room.

Mrs. Stephens stepped forward, her hand trembling as she unfurled the parchment. “No, dear,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the lines and symbols etched into the paper. “This is a map of the old mining tunnels, not the treasure we seek.”

The room grew tense, the air thick with the scent of dust and disappointment. Yet, in the corner of the study, a dusty cupboard stood untouched. Mrs. Stephens felt drawn to it, her curiosity piqued by the faint scent of lavender that seemed to emanate from within. She approached the cupboard, her hand reaching out to grasp the brass handle.

With a soft creak, the doors swung open, revealing a treasure trove of forgotten finery. Dresses and suits, once the epitome of fashion, now hung like ghosts of a bygone era. Sue’s eyes lit up at the sight, but it was Mrs. Stephens who stepped forward, her hand caressing the fabric of a stunning emerald gown. The dress was a relic of a time when elegance and wealth had reigned supreme in Kilkenny, its silk shimmering with the promise of a life untouched by the harsh realities outside.

The gown was surprisingly well-preserved, the fabric as soft and rich as the day it was made. Mrs. Stephens held it against her, the color a vibrant contrast to the dullness of her travel-worn clothes. Her eyes searched the room, and she found a dusty mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. With trembling hands, she carefully untied the strings of her own dress and allowed it to pool at her feet, the fabric whispering secrets of the life she had once known.

Sue and Smokes watched as she stepped into the emerald dress, the fabric sliding over her skin like a second skin. The fit was surprisingly good, as if the dress had been waiting for her all along. She turned to face them, the candlelight from the single flame flickering over her form. In that moment, she was not the tired widow they had met in the stagecoach, but a queen reclaiming her throne.

But it was not the dress that caught Sue’s eye next. Behind the ghosts of forgotten finery, in the depths of the cupboard, a portrait gleamed. It was a family, dressed in their Sunday best, with smiles frozen in time. The mother’s eyes, a piercing blue, stared out at her, filled with a hope that seemed to resonate through the dusty air. Sue reached out and gently lifted the portrait from its resting place, the wood cold against her palms.