“You’re almost done,” Papá called up softly. “Follow the sound of my voice. A few feet to go.”
At last, my boots touched the floor. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I inhaled deeply, shuddering from relief and exhaustion. By the time I stepped out of the loop, flinging it away from me as if it were a coiled snake, my entire body refused to stay upright. Papá came forward, wrapped his arm around my waist, and held me up.
“Don’t fall into the water,” he said urgently. “Lean against the wall if you have to. I need to send the rope back up for Mr. Graves.”
He released me, handing me the lantern, and I slumped against the stone. Three feet in front of me, the walkway ended abruptly, and I could see the rush of water sweep past. We waited for Mr. Graves to join us, and our procession continued with Papá once again leading the way and the odious Mr. Graves at the tail. There was no time to admire the intricately designed surroundings as they set a brisk march that nearly left me out of breath.
“Up ahead, make a right,” Mr. Graves shouted over the roar of the water.
Papá made the turn and I followed, nervous energy making me jumpy. I was unprepared for what waited for me: ten men, dressed in various dark colors from black to dour gray; they wore caps perched low over their brows, and most of their shirtsleeves were rolled up to their elbows.
“Where’s the library entrance?” Papá asked.
“Up ahead,” Mr. Graves repeated, coming to stand in front of the group. “All these men are armed with rifles or revolvers, knives and daggers. How would you like to proceed?”
“Possible to surround the site?”
Mr. Graves nodded. “There’s no exterior wall to the library, only one archway that was designated the official entrance, though you can enter from the other canal paths converging at this point. Once you’re farther inside, there are walls lined with rows and rows and rows of shelves. This stretch of area is covered by a wooden floor, but sections have decayed and broken off, revealing the water underneath. Seems a curious place for a library.”
“A desperate move,” Papá mused. Though he whispered, I could still detect the potent excitement threading his voice. “But how else to protect the marvels librarians and scholars amassed throughout millennia? Through countless fires, wars, protests? What an extraordinary undertaking to transfer the world’s wealth below ground. I suppose it must have been the Greeks who decided the extreme measure was necess—”
“Sir,” Mr. Graves murmured. “I hate to interrupt, but perhaps we ought to press on while we have the advantage?”
The men were huddled, shifting on their feet, restless.
Mr. Graves indicated one of the paths. “Two men with Mr. Sterling, if you please. I’ll remain with Miss Olivera at the middle, and the rest follow behind. I want not a sound from any of you. Understood?”
The men nodded and quietly situated themselves as directed. Papá set off, flanked by his two guards, and then Mr. Graves flicked his gun, indicated I ought to follow. I did so, conscious that he remained close, the gleam of his weapon reflecting in the glow from the lantern. To my left, the water roared, creating a humid atmosphere that felt as if I were in a steam room. My shirtsleeves clung to my damp skin.
More than once, Whit’s face popped into my mind.
I had left our room to order breakfast, never imagining that in a span of minutes, I’d be forced out of the hotel. He would be furious, desperately searching for me, and I would have given anything to hear him shout at me instead of the steady thud of our footsteps as we followed my father, a general waging war against my mother.
We had to pick our way through debris, columns tumbled to their sides, the ends falling into the water. Giant chunks of stone blocked our path, and we had to climb up and over in order to press on. Sweat slid under the collar of my shirt, and I wiped my face with my sleeve. It was undignified, but I didn’t care. It was hard to see when—
My foot caught on an overturned rock, and I stumbled into one of the men who trailed after my father. He windmilled his arms, catching his balance, and then turned to glare at me.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
A second later, his eyes widened as he pitched to the side, arms outstretched toward me, fingers grasping air before he tumbled into the water. He screamed as the river carried him away, and he waved his hands desperately, fighting to stay afloat.
“Stop,” Mr. Graves barked. He took ahold of my arm, nails digging in, and swung me around to face him. “What the hell happened?”
I gaped at him, stunned by the incident. It had happened so fast. “He fell.”
He jerked me forward, his harsh breath blowing into my face. “You pushed him.”
“No,” I said, trying to wiggle out of his grasp, but his grip never slackened. I’d have bruises marking my skin from his tight hold. “I didn’t. Iswear—”
“He tripped,” came a low voice from behind me. “Saw it clearly.”
I froze, my lips parting in surprise. Every word of protest died on my tongue. A tremor shook my body, and I fought to keep my wits.
That voice.
I’d heard it whispered against my skin, murmured soothingly in the dark, yelled in exasperation. I’d know it anywhere, even below ground.
“Fool,” Mr. Graves said disgustedly. He narrowed his eyes at the man behind me, but then his attention veered to the others surrounding us. “Keep going, and for God’s sake, watch where you step.”
