“We won’t, I promise,” Willoughby says. “Come on—I’ll show you. We’re all done here, right?”
I glance at Brandon. Our flower basket is still unfinished, and I’m reluctant to leave it. Or maybe I’m just reluctant for this quiet moment beside Brandon to end. But he simply shrugs a shoulder, his expression toocareful to read.
Willoughby reaches for my hand, and I let him lead me away, an excited Ellenor at our heels chattering about dungeons and poltergeists.
I don’t need to glance back to know Brandon’s there, following. A ripple of awareness moves through me, prickling my skin—the kind that only ever seems to come from him.
28
Wands Drawn
Brandon
The four of us stand before an iron-hinged door at the rear of the castle, where the ground dips and the flanking walls jut outward, casting us in shadow.
Lily-Anne casts a furtive glance back at the grounds, where a few people stroll.
Ellenor does not share her sister’s nervousness and eagerly tries the iron handle. “Locked,” she scowls, clicking her tongue.
“Not surprising,” Lily-Anne says. “It doesn’t look like it gets much use.”
I silently agree. The wood is swollen from damp, the hinges spotted with rust.
“Let’s return,” I say, and it’s not a suggestion.
Ellenor’s face falls in disappointment, but Lily-Anne appears relieved.
“Hold on—not so fast.” Jack grins, rummaging in his pocket. “I came prepared.”
He holds up a skeleton key with showman’s flair.
“Where did you get that?” Ellenor gasps.
“I got it during work experience years ago. Thought it looked cool, so I kept it.”
I stare. It comes as no surprise that Jack’s idea ofnotbreaking in involves precisely that: breaking in—not with shattered glass, but with a key he was once entrusted with and failed to return.
Despite my careful optimism from a few weeks ago, I’m starting to fear that the reformed Jack I hoped for is rather similar to the old one.
Jack hands Ellenor the key. “Care to do the honours?”
She jumps at the opportunity, and if she weren’t already won over by Jack, she is now.
Click.
She throws us a grin before seizing the iron handle. The door still doesn’t budge.
She sighs. “It’s stuck.”
“Allow me,” Jack says. He grips the iron handle and shoves hard. The door gives way with a low, echoing groan that rolls into the darkness beyond.
“Creepy,” Ellenor breathes.
“I don’t think I want to go in,” Lily-Anne says suddenly.
“Still scared of the dark?” Ellenor teases. “Here—I’ve been dying to use this thing.”
She reaches into her bag and produces what appears to be a gnarled, polished stick.
