With surprising strength, Father lifts the frame. It swings outward on hidden hinges, revealing a wall safe I never knew existed. My breath catches.
How many other secrets does this house hold?
How many secrets did Grandmother know? She lived here her whole married life, raised Father in these halls, then raised me. Did she know about this safe? About the hidden doors and vaults?
Or was she kept as blind as I've been?
I remember her sometimes pausing in doorways, a strange look on her face, as if the house itself confused her. Once, when I was young, I found her standing in the library, hand pressed against the wood paneling.
Father's fingers fly over the safe's dial, movements practiced and precise. A soft click, and the door swings open. He reaches inside, withdrawing a wooden box. It's surprisingly plain given its hiding place—simple oak, unadorned save for a small brass lock and a delicate mother-of-pearl inlay forming the shape of a swan.
Without a word, he turns and strides out of the study, box clutched tightly to his chest. I follow, confusion mounting with each step. We move deeper into the house, past rooms I've known my entire life, until we reach a small, nondescript door I've never paid much attention to before.
Another key, another lock. Beyond lies a tiny room, barely larger than a closet. Its sole feature is a state-of-the-art safeembedded in the wall. Father punches in a code, then submits to a retinal scan. The safe clicks open.
From within, he retrieves a single key. It's old and ornate—the kind you'd expect to see in a fairy tale, not in this modern fortress of a home. With trembling hands, he unlocks the wooden box.
Inside is a ring of iron keys, each unique and bearing the patina of age. Father scoops them up, leaving the box behind. He strides out, heading for the wine cellar.
The cellar is a cavernous space, filled with rack upon rack of priceless vintages. Father moves to a seemingly unremarkable section of the wall. He slides aside a wine rack, revealing yet another hidden door.
This one requires a key from the iron ring. As it swings open, cool, musty air washes over us. Beyond lies a narrow corridor, lit by flickering sconces that spring to life as we enter.
I used to measure the house as a child, pacing off distances between rooms. Grandmother would find me counting steps in hallways, and instead of scolding me, she'd get this sad, knowing look. "Old houses have their mysteries," she'd say. But these aren't mysteries—they're deliberate deceptions. Hidden corridors carved out of space that should exist.
At the end of the hall, we face a final barrier—a sleek, modern door with an electronic keypad. Father punches in a code, his body blocking my view of the numbers. A soft beep, a hiss of hydraulics, and the door slides open.
The room beyond takes my breath away. It's a vault, yes, but calling it that feels woefully inadequate. It's a treasure trove, a museum's worth of priceless artifacts crammed into a space the size of a small apartment.
Paintings line the walls, stacked three and four deep in places. I recognize some immediately—works thought lost during the war, pieces whispered about in art history lectures. AKlimt here, a Klee there. My eyes widen as I spot what can only be Raphael'sPortrait of a Young Man, missing since 1945.
Interspersed among the paintings are display cases filled with jewelry, ancient artifacts, and items I can't even begin to identify. Gold glints in the low light, gems sparkle, and the weight of history presses down on me.
Father moves to a central pedestal, topped with a heavy glass case. Another key, another lock opened. From within, he withdraws a small velvet box. His hands shake as he opens it, relief flooding his features as he sees its contents.
I lean in, curiosity overcoming my trepidation. Nestled on black velvet lies a necklace that steals my breath. A massive ruby, easily the size of a quail's egg, hangs from an intricate gold chain. But it's the stone that captures my attention. Within its blood-red depths, a flaw catches the light—the perfect silhouette of a swan.
"My God. It's beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Father's lips twist in a sneer. "You foolish girl. Do you have any idea what this is worth? What it means to our family?"
I shake my head, taken aback by the venom in his voice.
"Of course you don't." He spits the words. "It's priceless. Truly priceless. And not just in monetary terms. This stone... It's our legacy. And you, with your careless, idiotic dalliance in Paris, have put it all at risk."
"Father, I don't understand. What does my trip have to do with?—"
"That man you've been with." He cuts me off, eyes blazing. "He's not who you think he is. He's been searching for this necklace for decades, and you, my foolish daughter, have led him right to our doorstep."
My mind reels. Paul? But he already knows... Unless... "You mean Merlin?"
Father's eyes narrow. "How do you know that name?"
I bite my tongue, cursing my slip. "Everyone in the art world knows that name. He's a master thief."
He studies me for a long moment, suspicion clear in his gaze. Finally, he nods, seemingly satisfied with my explanation. "Yes, Merlin. The most dangerous art thief in history. And now, thanks to you, he knows we have the Swan."
"How?" I manage to choke out. "How do you know all this?"
