Vivian takes a long sip of the drink. She can’t tell if he’s flirting with her or genuinely concerned about how she decided to wander around—that is, until she locks eyes with him, and a heat kindles inside her. “Oh no?” she says, dropping her voice a little.
“No,” he whispers.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
After a quick glance over his shoulder, he takes her arm and pulls her forward a few steps before leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, a door pushes in. It’s a false wall. Peter flips his mask up, like a pair of sunglasses, and grins almost boyishly as he holds the door open.
It’s dark, and the strong smell of cigars hits her nose, as if someone were sitting there smoking, but when the lights flicker on, they are alone.
The secret room is a small library. Mahogany built-in bookshelves and cabinetry wrap around two walls. A rolling library ladder is hinged to a track that runs along the upper shelves. The third and fourth walls of the room are adorned with artwork. A tapestry of Chinese origin occupies a large swath of wall space. No surprise there, given the Knox’s early roots.
In the center of the room, a green velvet couch sits opposite two chairs, a wooden coffee table sandwiched in between.
No secretaries, unfortunately.
Peter steals over to a mahogany cigar box resting on one of the cabinets. He is suddenly more interested in fishing out a cigar for himself than continuing their flirting. Fine with Vivian. It will give her a chance to look around. She sets down her martini on the coffee table, next to a pair of familiar candlesticks she’d sourced for the Knox.
She’s drawn into a memory: Xavier at Vivian’s store one day, looking through her collection of heavily tarnished silver and brass candlesticks.
“I could easily clean these up for you,” he offered, meaning he could remove the oxidation with cyanide. While the use of cyanide is no longer a standard practice for cleaning jewelry due to its obvious danger, certain jewelers, like Xavier, have permits that allow them to purchase and use it for their business.
“Don’t you dare,” she replied. “Patina and original finish are what allow me to price these the way I do.”
The memory fading, she glances around the room. There’s an eerie quiet; the party sounds are muted completely, as if the room is soundproof. Maybe it is. She realizes there are no windows. Unless there’s one hiding beneath that tapestry.
Peter lights up the cigar, and puffs of smoke billow. “This room is ventilated, so don’t worry.”
“Oh?” She still holds her breath. She is not one for cigar smoke, especially when in a windowless room, ventilation system or not. Through the filter of a masquerade mask or not. “What is this place?”
“They call it Teddy’s. It was named after Theodore Thurgood. He was in charge of the Knox after William Knox passed.”
Theodore “Teddy” Thurgood. Hmm. She commits this name to memory—she’s not sure what she’ll need in this quest of hers—and walks over to one of the nearby bookshelves that has caught her eye. The section is partially tucked under the ladder, and she pushes the ladder away, marveling at the ease in which it moves. Now, she’s face-to-face with a few shelves of old, seemingly forgotten-about books. Antiques, some might say.
Hunger floods her, but it’s not for food. She feels the way she does when she enters an estate sale, when a trove of treasures is at her fingertips. She instantly feels she can breathe a little easier. The books are in shades of tans and maroons and muted greens, their spines worn, crinkled. She can almost sense the film of dust that surely envelops them.
Vivian carries a smattering of vintage books in the shop, some finds she’s discovered at the Sunday markets that run in the warm weather. She’s marked them up to make a profit, but it’s difficult to really assess their value. She is hardly an expert on rare books. Her area of expertise has always been what she jokingly—and secretly—calls “early IKEA”: livable, functional, antique furnishings, from the 1800s to the 1920s. The criteria being that the items need to fit through the front door of her shop—it’s the only way in and out. This suits her local customers just fine, though. They live in quirky, old spaces and are also looking for furniture that can squeeze through small entrances or be carried up narrow,crooked or spiral staircases. Her items are pricey, though; her customers are far from IKEA shoppers.
“Was Theodore a business associate of William Knox’s?”
“No. He was his son-in-law. He worked for William. He was actually a cabin boy who worked his way up. But then he married William’s only daughter, Margaret.”
At the name Margaret, Vivian freezes. “Did they have children?” she manages to ask, slowly turning to face Peter.
“One, a boy.”
And a girl, she silently adds. A girl, her great-great-grandmother, born out of wedlock while Theodore was at sea. Instead, she says, “That’s unusual for those times. To have just one.”
“You’re right; I’ve never really thought about that.”
“Maybe she had health problems?” Vivian suggests. She might be pushing her luck here. But she is curious, and not just because she wants to find a missing slip of paper. Because this Margaret—her great-great-great-grandmother—lived here, in this house. Because suddenly, in Vivian’s mind, she’s become a real person, with desires and likes and dislikes.
“Well, their son was a doctor, so if she did, she was in good hands.”
Her son the doctor does not have the same kind heart. Something is not right. He has her body in the basement.
Vivian swallows. “A doctor, huh,” she says, prodding Peter. But he doesn’t say anything. “Dr.Thurgood,” she adds, but he still doesn’t say anything.
