The steps were worn in the middle from ages of use, but they’d been swept clean -- odd for this area.
The lock was a modern lock, not relative to the era. The door was newly made, and someone had taken pains to fortify it recently.
The streetlamp was at the wrong angle to illuminate any of those who wished for entry, so some other form of identification had to be used.
“We need a password,” she said to Emerson.
His brow rose as if slower at piecing together all the details.
“What’s the time?” she asked, not bothering to check her own pocket watch, but taking in any other clues she could have missed.
“Quarter of twelve.”
“There could be more.” She nodded then moved down the block to a darker corner between the two nearly touching buildings lining the street. The streetlamp near them had burned out, offering additional coverage. Jaxsen lowered herself onto her haunches as she hid behind a rather dead hedgerow, its dead branches scratching at her thin muslin dress.
Emerson lowered himself behind her, his body heat a welcome source of warmth in the night chill. The sound of his pocket watch’s near-silent tick was the only noise in the night for several minutes, till two other men strayed from the main street and headed toward the lower staircase.
Jaxsen stilled like a doe frightened, and scarcely breathed. But rather than fear, adrenaline and excitement pulsed through her. She had been correct in her assessment.
Emerson’s body was tense behind hers, all hard lines and taut muscle. She forced herself to not think about it, but it haunted her with its warmth, inviting her closer when she knew what was truly needed was to get farther away.
No good would come from any attraction.
The men took the steps, and Jaxsen scarcely breathed as she listened for any words the men might use to gain entrance.
“Maregno.”
The word was so faint she wondered if she heard it correctly. The metallic sound of a lock twisting echoed in the street, loud against the stone walls that made a proper echoing chamber. The tops of the men’s heads disappeared inside the door, its closing a muted thud followed by the mechanical lock once more.
“Did you hear it?” Emerson breathed.
“The word?”
She felt him shake his head. “No, the sound of the lock. It’s a keyed lock. Someone has the key. And it’s not Wessix.”
It’s not Wessix.
The words echoed in her mind all through their carriage ride back to Emerson’s estate.
Her mind was twisting, formulating, calculating, deciding, and then restarting the whole process all over again. “Not Wessix,” she muttered.
“Eleven,” Emerson remarked.
Her gaze shot to his as the coach rolled to a stop.
“You’ve said that eleven times since we’ve entered the carriage.” He held up a hand. “Personally, I’m more inclined to even numbers, so I was hoping for twelve, but alas, eleven, it is.”
She glared at him, then her lips twisted. “Not Wessix.”
“Ah, so much better.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and started to open the door to the coach.
“Not Wessix. I believe that’s thirteen and decidedly uneven.” She couldn’t resist as he shot her an irritated glare just before his foot landed on the gravel.
“You’re welcome.” She gave a little finger wave. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“It is morning.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
