Moving and speaking with heightened energy, she takes me through room after room until they become a blur of lush fabrics and gold-framed paintings. Like my apartment, dark paneling runs throughout, the style somber and moody despite the daylight.
Luci gestures with her hands, spouting off names in French—galerie, logo du concierge, salle à manger. As we exit a room whose name I’ve already forgotten, I spot a blue book on a coffee table. I come to a stop. It’s not dark, but it gives me an idea.
If Rose did leave the journal in the apartment, maybe the cleaning staff picked it up. And if those people also clean the mansion, it’s possible they brought the book to the main house.
And put it in the most logical place.
I spin around to Luci. “Do you have a library?”
Something flickers behind her eyes. “Oui,” she says, breaking from her usual English. “Straight ahead.” She lifts her hand, pointing down the corridor, to another set of doors standing open at the end.
Instead of taking the lead, Luci drags a half-step behind and lets me enter the library first.
“It’s huge,” I say, my voice breathy with awe. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, with rolling ladders to help reach the books on top.
“Amazing, right?” Luci’s hollow tone doesn’t match her words, but I’m focused on the grandeur of the room.
“Amazing is one word for it.” Turning in a slow circle, I take it all in. The library of every book lover’s dreams.
And far too many books for me to investigate. Not by myself. And I can’t ask for Luci’s help.
I sweep my gaze around the room, trying to home in on any blue books. My eyes land on the fireplace, and the prominent portrait hanging above the mantle. The man from the photo in the storage room. He’s older, with more wrinkles and hair turned white, but I recognize his face, the sharp nose and brooding gaze.
And he’s wearing the same shawl.
I approach the painting, studying the wrap hanging around his neck. The painting is in color, red lettering popping against the black fabric. I can clearly make out the design. The letter V in a bold, Roman style, with an S within the angle.
No, wait. I step closer.
Not a letter, but a serpent. Rearing its head from inside the V, its long body forming an S-shaped curve.
The portrait commands attention, a picture light casting shadows on the man’s stern face. “He must be important.”
“Mm-hm.” Luci nods. “My great-great grandfather. He built Maison Marteau.”
Pretending I’m noticing for the first time, I point to the symbols on his scarf. “Is this some sort of family crest?”
“No.” She presses her lips together. “I…I’m not sure. Like a fraternity or something, I think.” She folds and unfolds her arms, body wired tight enough to snap. Standing in the doorway, just over the threshold.
Barely a step inside the library.
Even from across the room, I can tell how stiffly she’s holding herself, like she’s bracing for impact. She tries to smile again, but something makes her mouth twitch and her shoulders cinch tight. Something that tugs on my heart. Sadness. Insecurity.
Or damage.
She almost folds into herself, like an injured bird trying to hide. The look in her eyes takes me back in time, to a certain night. A horrific night.
She reminds me of Mackenzie.
Forgetting the painting, and the journal, and all of the mansion’s secrets, I walk over to her. I speak softly, because she looks like she might break. “Luci, what’s the matter?”
Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Nothing.”
Her voice is barely audible, so I inch closer and touch her arm. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”
Draping one arm over her stomach, she opens her mouth to respond. Closes it again.
Seconds pass as we stare at each other.
