Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(76)

I tell myself that the bodies have been hidden for two hundred years. Twenty minutes more won’t matter.

So I turn to Thomas. “Now we go find Dominic.”

“Who?”

The question stuns me. For a second, I stand, gaping, and I have to remind myself that this boy doesn’t know me. He’s not going to call me crazy.

Not even when I say, “The Scarred Man.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. “I have to find the Scarred Man,” I say, and I know now, more than ever, that it’s true.

Because this time I know that he’s on my side.

“He loved my mother,” I explain. “He’ll know what to do. We can trust him.”

“Okay.” Thomas nods. “We’ll split up and find this Dominic and then we’ll meet back here.”

“Sounds good,” I tell him.

We start back down the south corridor then split up when we reach the main hall.

As soon as Thomas is out of sight—as soon as he’s safe—I reach for my flashlight and turn back. Maybe because I’m being stupid. Maybe because the last person who went down this proverbial rabbit hole ended up dead.

But, more than likely, it’s just because there are some paths you’re destined to walk alone.





It smells like the tunnels. Like centuries of dust and damp and mildew and … secrets.

The stone steps are steep and dusty but not dark. I walk in that beam of light, past torches that still hang from the walls as if waiting for the guards to change shifts—for an emergency to send them down these stairs. Maybe for supplies. Maybe reinforcements. I just know that with every step, I get further from my own time and closer to my mother. Closer to Amelia. Closer to the truth.

When at last I reach a cold stone floor, I stop and get my bearings. Cobwebs cling to my hair and to my clothes. I’m walking through a century’s worth of dust, and it feels at least ten degrees colder here than it did in the rest of the palace. The ceiling is made from stone and ancient wood, and I can’t hear the servants who are rushing from room to room upstairs, getting ready for the onslaught of dignitaries and world leaders who will come to mourn the king. Somewhere, Thomas’s father is dealing with the fact that the job’s now his. And Ann …

Ann is probably thinking that she’s won.

And she’s probably right.

But I keep walking anyway.

My flashlight’s small, and its beam is thin as it sweeps across a room that’s full of crates and boxes. There’s no telling what it used to be, but now it’s filled with old pieces of furniture and marble busts.

There are heavy barrels along one wall, cases of what look like wine on the other. But this isn’t the palace’s wine cellar, I can tell. No one has been here in ages. It’s like a time capsule, like a display at a museum.

There’s a rack nearby with swords and belts, like the men who wore them have just changed shifts and will be back in a few hours, ready to start another day. There’s a heavy table in the center of the room, surrounded by chairs that are so solid and so heavy that I wonder if I could even move them.

A pair of old ceramic cups sit on the table, like their owners might come back at any time and finish their drinks.

I don’t know what I expected to find. Surely there wouldn’t be a sarcophagus or a marker. There was never going to be an X to mark the spot.

I feel silly for a second. Defeated. But then I see the beam of light that falls from the room’s lone window. It’s high on the wall, probably just above the ground, and it’s barely enough to fight the darkness that surrounds me, shining like a spotlight upon a stage.

Except … not a stage.

The table.

I walk to the huge wooden artifact in the center of the room. This isn’t one of the grand antiques that fill the palace, but I have no doubt it’s just as old. Heavy and rough, this was built for hard use by hard people.

Scuff marks and burn marks mar the surface. A thick layer of dust covers the whole thing, and I run my hands across the scrapes and scars of careless use and then, in the center … something else.

I lean over the massive relic and brush with all my might, blowing away the dirt and dust that have settled into the symbol I’ve seen all over this city. Never has it made my heart pound like this.

The Society was here, they might as well have carved. And now I know I’m close.

I could scream or fight, but I force myself to back away and look at the room anew. Crates, shelves, barrels, and weapons. But no big boxes. The stones along the wall look undisturbed. And I have to think.

They would have been hidden quickly, probably in the dead of night. Maybe the Society members who came for the royal family intended to return once the coup was over. This is hardly fit to be a royal grave. And it’s not, I realize. It’s a royal mystery.

I step toward the table again, but this time I almost trip when my toe catches on the edge of an old, faded rug. It must have been heavy at one time. No doubt placed down here to fight the chill, but that’s not why I feel a shiver in my bones when I look at it.

Now the chairs that seemed so heavy a moment ago fly across the room like feathers as I toss them aside. The old table creaks and groans and crashes to the floor when I grab one side and hurl with all my might, toppling the furniture and pushing it aside.

Now there’s only the old rug that has lain beneath the Society’s symbol for ages, just waiting for someone to look.