Rafael led Ari into the Manoir and down a narrow staircase behind the main flight of stairs. The place was quiet, peaceful, and the familiar scents of sea and wood polish swept up around him, calming him. His heart beat hard against his ribs, and the sound of his footsteps echoed that rhythm.
He knew this path like he knew the way through his room at night, like he knew how to breathe.
Ari followed him, her nervousness betrayed with every step, but she clung to the box she had wrapped in an oversized shopping bag. An ignominious state for such a find, but what choice did they have? At least down here, it would be safe.
He didn’t know which of his ancestors had built the vault. It was buried in the heart of the cellars, more fundamental a part of the building than any roof or floor. It was, perhaps, the whole reason for the rest of the Manoir. When he was a child, on the rare occasions they had visited here, he had schemed and plotted, tried to figure out ways to sneak inside, convinced that it had to contain treasure and mysteries. He imagined a hoard of gold and gleaming jewels, and possibly a dragon to guard it. Rather than Mémé.
On the day his great-aunt had finally put the ornate key in his hands, he’d hardly dared to open the heavy metal door. The key was old as well, a huge heavy thing which they hid in plain sight as a decoration in the drawing room. No one else knew what it opened.
The door opened with a long, sinister creak. Fitting, he supposed. He often wondered if it was intentional, just to put him on edge when he went in there.
He glanced back at Ari and smiled in an attempt to reassure her. She looked terrified. He didn’t blame her.
Rafael had felt the urge to pick up that mask, to put it on and give himself up to it. Some strange energy had possessed him, shaken him, overpowered him without any effort at all. It had almost taken Ari as well. That was what he’d walked in on. And he thanked all that was holy that he had arrived in time.
He flicked on the light. The bulbs flickered and then filled the space with a steady glow. He heard Ari inhale, a sharp intake of breath he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t see wonder here anymore, but she did.
‘What do you have down here?’ she blurted out.
He glanced around, wishing he could see the wonder she did. Her eyes shone with it. All he saw were dusty boxes and crates, a few paintings and even more books.
‘Are those diamonds?’ she asked. ‘Rafael? Are those—?’
There was a box of jewellery on the nearest shelf. Mémé must have been storing things down here. Or someone else, long ago. He didn’t remember seeing it before, but he didn’t know if he would have noticed. It looked antique. And probably uninsurable. No wonder she hadn’t mentioned that. A bank vault would probably be more responsible. But the same could be true of many things down here. Sometimes a bank vault was not enough.
Ari set the box containing the mask down on a shelf and pushed it back, as if keen to get it out of her hands. She turned around, staring at the room. There were no windows, and only one way in, the huge metal door through which they had just entered. The alarms were separate to those protecting the house. He’d had them installed himself. Other than that, just that door, this key and several feet of granite everywhere else kept this place secure. Impregnable. Only his immediate family knew of its existence. And now Ari. It was the most secure place he knew and he had visited more than his fair share of bank vaults in his time.
‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ he joked.
A smile flickered over her mouth. ‘Very homely.’
‘So, safe enough for your magic mask?’
He had to make light of it, for both their sakes.
She looked relieved. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, let’s get away from it.’
He couldn’t disguise how eager he was to do that and neither could she.
But as he turned to go, something else caught his eye. Not jewels, or treasures. It was a small leather-bound book, lying on its side on the shelf just inside the door. Not old, not compared to other things in here. But not modern either. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, recognising it. It didn’t belong here.
‘What’s that?’ Ari asked.
‘Fabien’s diary, the volume missing from the library upstairs. I wonder what it’s doing down here.’
He opened it, his eyes scanning the page. The writing was so familiar. The diaries were relatively well known. People came begging to use them for research from time to time. As a child, Rafael had read all of his diaries, the ones he could lay hands on. All the early ones were easy. It was only when war broke out that Fabien had started using code.
A phrase caught his eye.
Blanche said there was a path leading to Ys, or what is left of Ys. She called itle chemin de l’eauand I never realised why until we found it, Poullain and I. And there she was, eyes of stone, heart of stone, waiting for us.
Rafael frowned, glaring at the words, refusing to believe what he was seeing.
Ari leaned over, reading. ‘Does that say Poullain?’
‘Tristan Poullain. Fabien’s…friend. His comrade in arms.’
