“I can let you in, Miss. But I’ll need to stay while you search it. Protocol.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He leads me back to the door at the end of the corridor and unlocks it. The mechanism clicks smoothly, and the door swings open.
Inside, the room is small and dusty, lit only by the moonlight streaming through a single narrow window. Shelves line the walls,most of them empty. A workbench sits in the corner, its surface scarred and stained.
This was a workshop. A healer’s workshop.
“I’ll just be a moment,” I tell the guard, who positions himself in the doorway.
The shelves sit empty except for dust and the ghost-shapes where bottles once stood. Even the workbench has been wiped clean, its scarred surface bare.
I’m about to tell the guard there’s nothing here when I notice the gap.
The workbench sits flush against the wall, but there’s a crack between the bench and stone – narrow, easy to miss in the dim light. Something pale shows in the darkness. I move closer, pretending to examine the bench’s surface, and crouch down as if checking the lower shelves.
My fingers find the edge of parchment wedged behind the bench leg. It’s been shoved there hastily, crumpled, the corner torn. I ease it out carefully, keeping my body between the paper and the guard’s line of sight.
That’s my mother’s handwriting.
It’s a list of names – nobles, servants, merchants – with notes beside each one:
Lord Vance – owes favour for his daughter’s fever
Lady Maren – two favours, pneumonia treatment
General Thane – one favour, battlefield injury
Archivist Ewan – wife’s childbirth complications
She was keeping track of debts and favours owed. Protection, maybe, or leverage. My mother was building something here – a web of obligations, a safety net.
“Miss?” the guard calls from the doorway. “Find what you needed?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I tuck the paper inside my robe against my skin where it won’t be visible. “No medical supplies here, unfortunately. But thank you for your help.”
He locks the door behind us, and I make my way back to my quarters, my heart still racing.
The workshop has been stripped, deliberately cleared. Someone wanted to erase my mother and everything she’d built here.
But they missed this paper.
