“No, it’s all clear,” she says. “There’s nothing at the reaper, either.”
Linus, Burnham, and I walk quietly around to the front, keeping to the cover of trees and kiosks as much as we can, until we reach Scylla Square, the open area between the end of the Main Drag and the moat. A couple security lights cast the cobblestones in a gray hue. Ahead, at the top of the steps, the big double doors of the keep are closed. The caged light shines above them.
“I can see you!” Dubbs says into my ear.
“Great,” I whisper.
We cross the square toward the keep, and as we climb the steps, I look over the banister, down into the moat, toward the hole where I first fell down to the vault. I can make out nothing but shadows, dead leaves, a broken mannequin, and more bits of weathered litter.
“There’s a drain down there,” I say to Linus, pointing. “That’s where I got down to the vault of dreamers before.”
“We’re going to find another way down,” he says. “If we need to go.”
At the top of the stairs, the big wooden doors are tagged with black graffiti, and a scuffed lockbox bulges over a modern knob. Burnham gives one of the big metal handles a pull, but the door doesn’t budge.
“Do you have the code?” Linus says to me.
Ten sixty-six, Arself tells me. Battle of Hastings.
What’s that have to do with anything?
The last security coder was a history buff.
“Try ten sixty-six,” I say.
Linus punches it in, and the lockbox gives a buzz of admittance.
“Nice,” he says.
When he pulls the door, though, it opens only partway before it jams against a buckled bump in the flooring. The gap is less than a foot wide, and the door won’t open any farther. I look doubtfully at the width of Linus’s trim waist, and then at Burnham’s. They’re both solid guys, and Burnham’s easily twenty pounds heavier.
“Can you make it?” I ask.
“No problem,” Burnham says. “Go ahead.”
I squeeze through first, and with a grunt, Linus jimmies through behind me. Worried, I look back out at Burnham. He gets his leg with the brace through first, and then he works himself through the tight space. He adjusts his glasses and, breathing hard, he nods at me.
“Now where?” he asks.
Upstairs, Arself says.
I take a look around.
A broken section of the wall up near the ceiling lets in a glimpse of the night sky and enough moonlight to reveal the musty interior. We’re in a tall, narrow hall, with a big fireplace to our left. The head of a deer is mounted above the mantel, and two hooves are mounted below it, pawing out toward us. Some joker has placed a beer can on the deer’s head. A border of metal spears, pointing up and embedded into the walls, goes around the room, and many of the spears’ brackets bristle with birds’ nests. Poop has crusted below. Opposite us, the back door of the keep is closed. It’s equally as tall as the one we entered, and I can imagine how foot traffic once flowed through here and across the now fallen bridge outside. Two arched openings stand on either side of the back door, one leading to an upward staircase, the other leading down.
I have to admit, I’m curious about what it was like before.
Show me, I say.
As I slowly pass my left hand before my face, a shimmer spreads across the scene. The dimness gives way to an inviting room with gleaming woodwork and a huge, triple-tiered chandelier. Each spear has a polished point, and colorful tapestries of hunting scenes and garden picnics line the upper walls. The beer can has vanished off the deer head, and burnished silver vases of flowers have appeared on the mantel. A lush carpet lies underfoot, worked with blue and gold threads, and a row of tall wooden chairs backs against the right-hand wall. To top it all off, a full coat of armor stands in the corner, with a red plume in its helmet.
For a moment, I gaze around in wonder, and then the images begin to dissolve, giving way to reality.
“What is a keep, exactly?” I say.
“It’s an old tower,” Linus says. “We have lots of them back in Wales.”
“It’s a defense,” Burnham says. “That’s its prime function.”
My gaze drifts up again to the break in the wall and the night sky beyond it. “So why call this the Keep of Ages?” I ask.
“Maybe they hoped it would stand forever,” Linus says. “It’s about timelessness.”
“Immortality,” Burnham says.
I smile. “Ironic, isn’t it, since it’s crumbling?”
A tiny, mechanical hiss comes from above, but I can’t see exactly where. I feel a frisson of alertness.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“A camera, maybe,” Linus says. “The doctors in the vault probably know we’re here by now.”
“Will they send someone up?” Burnham asks. “What’ll we do if they find us?”
That seems a lot more likely now than it did when Dubbs asked the same question.
“We’ll tell them I’m here to talk to Berg,” I say. “In the meantime, we’d better hurry,” I say, and I cross over to the upward staircase.
Gray splotches litter the bottom steps, and I instinctively avoid them as I start up. At that instant, a winged flurry dive-bombs down at me. I yelp and duck as it flies past. Bat, I think, breathless. A disturbing rustle comes from above me, and then it magnifies into a whirl. As I crouch low, a flapping cloud of bats rushes down above me and flies past my head like a dark wind. The bats circle wildly inside the hall and then fly out the hole of moonlight, leaving the last one behind to flap against the walls before it vanishes, too.
My heart’s galloping in my chest.
“You okay?” Linus asks. He’s hunched right behind me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just startled. Burnham?”
I look back and see him ducked next to the fireplace with his leg at an awkward angle.
“I’m good,” Burnham says.
“Time for a flashlight,” Linus says.
“Yes. Go ahead. After you,” I say. Chances are, we’ve been seen already anyway.
Linus shines his flashlight up the staircase and starts up. I follow, and Burnham comes along behind me. The close confines of the stairwell oppress me, and even though the walls are encased in stone, I get the feeling they aren’t stable. After the first turn, the facade abruptly changes to flat drywall, and at the next landing, we reach a short, modern hallway with three doors. The left one is open to the turret room that we marked to search, but it contains only a long, dirty wad of pink insulation.
“My parents aren’t here,” I say.
Linus tries the right door and reveals a second empty room.
The central door is marked “Special Effects,” and it has another lockbox over the knob.
“Any ideas?” Burnham asks me.
1869, Arself says. First transcontinental railroad.
“Try eighteen-sixty-nine,” I say.
Burnham punches it in and then shoves the door open.