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.
I hold my breath and take a corner. The rug starts to disintegrate beneath my hands, but I keep pulling and pulling until I can see the stone floor give way to wooden planks. It used to be a door, I can tell, and I think about the tunnels that crisscross the city. Many caved in ages ago, filled with rocks and dirt and debris. There’s not a doubt in my mind this used to be one of them.
Now the trapdoor is nailed shut, and the wood is still solid.
I know I should wait for Dominic. We need tools and more light—workers and archaeologists. This is history that I’m unearthing, and even though I know that I should wait, I can’t. This secret is like the telltale heart, ticking beneath the floor of this room, and I have to make it stop.
Iron sconces are set throughout the room. On the ceiling, you can actually see the soot and scars from hundreds of years of fires that burned through the night. But the torches are cold now, and when I reach for one, I have to use all my strength to jerk it free—but it comes off, dirty and dusty in my hands.
Heavy.
The iron is solid, and I swing as hard as I can, sending it crashing into the wooden planks that fill that section of the floor. I swing again and again and again, until wood splinters and dust scatters.
I’m breathing too hard, coughing and gagging, but I can’t stop until the old door breaks and I’m able to reach down and pull it open, watch as the narrow beam of light from the window shines onto four ancient bundles that lie, resting in the shallow space below.
A part of me wants to ease forward and pull back the ancient cloth, look down at the remains just to be sure. Another part of me wants to turn and run from this dark place, go just as fast and as far as I can.
But all I can manage to do is sing.
“‘Hush, little princess, wait and see. No one’s gonna know that you are me.’”
And then I hear it, a shuffling behind me. I start to turn, expecting to see Thomas and Dominic, but instead a pain shoots through me, jarring me forward.
I double over and I sway, but I see nothing but stars.