My heart tightened with anxiety again.
Next I would tell James all the things I had been hiding from him—if I had the strength to do it.
Chapter Eighteen
“No legacy is so rich as honesty.”
Not only were we on the path toward Brackenridge Hall, but it seemed that the estate was our final destination. It loomed ahead, the rooftop dusted in fresh white snow.
I held tight to James’s arm as he led me around the back of the house. I often forgot that this was the home James had been raised in, though his brother had been the one to inherit it. He put a finger to his lips and reached out toward a dead, bare bush, pulling it back by the thickest branch.
Behind it was a short door, half concealed by dry vines.
“A secret passage?” My eyebrows lifted in surprise.
James nodded. “When I was a child, I sneaked down here all the time.” His face lit up at the memory. “Thomas, my brother, was a rascal as a boy, much less stern than he is today. Together we would sneak into the secret room behind this door when we were hiding from any trouble we had made. Here, we thought no one would ever find us.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t until years later that we learned our mother always knew we were here, but let us keep our secret. She believed that a secret shared betweentwo people was a treasure. It meant trust and friendship. But of course, she always saw good, never bad. She hoped our secret place would keep us close all our lives. Now, I don’t know if that’s the reason, but we have always been dear friends as well as brothers.”
I found myself smiling at his warm story, at the fondness of his mother’s memory. I hoped I could be a better sister for Clara. I wanted to make up for the years we had lost being closer to enemies than friends.
James reached forward again and forced his fingers behind a crack in the wall. He pulled, and the wooden door moved. The dead vines snapped as he pulled the door all the way open, revealing a narrow, steep staircase upward. Cobwebs hung from the dark, low ceiling, and dust floated in the air.
“We are going in there?” I gulped.
James laughed, but I couldn’t muster a sound.
He grinned. “After you, miss.”
I scoffed. “There is no possible way. How do I know you’re not leading me to my death?”
“What could possibly be in this stairway that is so dangerous?” He looked vastly amused.
I searched my mind for a plausible response. “A criminal. A monster. Or—or a creature with sharp claws and glowing yellow eyes.”
James laughed, then bent down, peering behind the door. “Oh, yes. There he is! One moment.”
I watched as he ducked down and walked through. He had only taken a few steps before he was swallowed in darkness. I heard several seconds of commotion, dramatic clattering and exaggerated shouting. I had to hold my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter. This was ridiculous.
After a moment, James came back into view. He poked his head out of the doorway. I could easily imagine him as a youngboy—probably with rosy cheeks and even messier black hair, bright green eyes too big for his face, shining with adventure. The thought was so endearing, I forgot not to grin at him.
“I have defeated the beast.” He cast me a smile and reached out to grasp my wrist. I was about to protest, but he pulled me forward. I ducked under the doorway. “We must hurry,” he said, whispering now. “I destroyed the creature with the glowing yellow eyes, but the monster still lives.”
I slapped him on the arm. “Do not frighten me like that.”
James laughed, and I allowed myself a smile in the dark. In truth, I didn’t feel overly afraid. James was here. For some reason, he made me feel safe in every sense of the word. As we walked up the endless stairs in the dark, I gripped his arm against my better judgement. I couldn’t see him in the darkness, but I could feel him right beside me, warm and strong, and that was almost a greater torture.
Finally, we paused our climb and James touched a door in front of us. He slid his hand until he found the handle and pushed the door open. Natural daylight flooded in from high above us. James stepped into the room, then reached down to assist me. My gaze scanned the new surroundings. It was disorienting. Three triangular windows sat just below the peaked ceiling. It was a tiny room, bare except for two chairs, a stone fireplace, a pile of chipped silver, and a stack of framed paintings.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I walked over to the paintings. The brushstrokes in the top painting were perfect, the colors vibrant. It was a painted landscape of Craster—I could tell by the rocky coast and tile rooftops. But the sky was much bluer than I had ever seen, and the grasses much greener. To be sure, I turned to James. “Is this Craster?”
He nodded, a sort of grim look in his eyes. “My mother painted it.”
I turned my gaze back to the painting in awe. “It is beautiful. But why did she depict it so differently?”
“It’s a depiction of Craster in the spring.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Is it truly this beautiful?”
He smiled. “It is.” He walked over to stand beside me, and I watched his eyes sweep over the painting, a sort of longing in his expression. “My mother was ill when she did this. She finished it mere days before her death. This town was such a joy to her, and spring was the only season she hadn’t yet painted it in.” He crossed his arms, as if to keep some piece of himself from falling apart. I had never seen him like this.
