But Mom doesn’t budge. Her gaze is glassy, vacant. I don’t think she heard me through her shock. Matteo’s crying grows louder.
I glance at Celeste who’s on the phone with the medics, giving them instructions on how to access the estate.
“Shut the door!” I yell at Mom.
I don’t dare to interrupt the CPR, even though it doesn’t seem to be working. My command snaps Mom out of her torpor, making her heave herself up and head to the door. But it’s too late.
Stephen crosses the threshold with his five-year-old son in his arms. He takes in the scene in its entirety. Terrified, I watch his gaze travel from Dad’s stiff body—naked but for the cushion over his privates—to Donna who’s scrambling into her lacy nightgown.
“I can explain,” Donna says to him. “We didn’t mean to…” She shuts up, seeing his face.
Pale as death and wild-eyed, he lets go of Matteo to turn around and punch the wall. The boy lands on his butt on the fluffy rug. Without looking at him or a word to any of us, my brother staggers out the door, swaying once or twice as he walks down the hallway. It’s the last time I see him alive.
CHAPTER29
JONAS
I try to remain as inconspicuous as possible and reduce the risk of being followed by taking the Tube from Tottenham Court Road to Bankside. My destination is the Giselle Fisher Regency Museum off Southwark Bridge Road. It’s closed today, but I’m getting VIP treatment and a private tour from the owner and curator, Giselle.
I disembark at Borough, walk the short distance to the address she gave me, and text her. Her reply is immediate.
Opening! Building on your left.
She buzzes me in. As I cross the courtyard garden, I rehearse in my head the different scenarios for how the next few hours could go. I’m fairly certain the fourth key is in there. The prophecy has never been wrong. Besides, Giselle mentioned she had many antique keys in her collection, including some not on public display. The ideal, easiest scenario is that she’ll sell me the key. I will then ping the undercover MESS agents on standby in the neighborhood. They’ll ensure my safety on the way to the London City Airport, where we’ll jet to Mount Evor.
I enter the building where Giselle waits. Dolled up in a formfitting red dress with her blond mane cascading down her back, she greets me with a delighted smile.
“It’s funny to see you dressed like this in contemporary clothes,” she says, blushing prettily.
“I bet you prefer me spruced as Mr. Darcy!”
She doesn’t deny it. “It’s not because you don’t look smashing now—you absolutely do—but I’ve been in love with Mr. Darcy for so long, you see…”
I know what I should say at this point. “And you, Madam, you are just as ravishing in this modern dress as you were in your Regency gown.”It won’t be untrue. Giselleisa beauty. But, for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to utter those words.
She fidgets with her wristwatch. “Do you mind if I keep calling you Mr. Darcy?”
Oh, uh.
She realizes I’m cringing at her request before I do. “Oh, forget what I said! It was silly.”
“Shall we begin the tour?”
We visit the furniture and tapestry showroom first, gazing at various pieces and breathing in the quintessential museum air—old wood, paper, and fabric spritzed with freshener. Our longest stop is before a square piano with a varnished surface that gleams with a golden hue. It’s angled toward the room with the lid open. It didn’t belong to Jane Austen, I’m informed, but it’s very similar to the ones she owned and played over the course of her life.
Next, we wander through a spacious hallway converted into an art gallery. None of the landscapes and portraits hanging here are by the likes of Gainsborough, Reynolds or Constable, or any other gifted Georgian-era artist. Objectively, they suck. But Giselle is very proud of them, and so I make befittingly appreciative sounds before each of her favorites.
An hour later, I can barely contain my agitation when we finally get to the third room dedicated to smaller objects. Giselle tells me about each significant artifact and how it came to be part of her collection. Dutifully, I stop at regular intervals to admire tea sets, books, boxes, figurines, letters, stationery, walking canes, and so on. Not to mention the highlight of the collection—Regency costumes.
We halt before an impressive display case with a sheet music book.
Giselle’s smile is so wide I fear her mouth might tear when she announces, “These scores were copied by Jane Austen herself! It’s her handwriting!”
“Unbelievable!” I gush. “You must be very proud to have this in your museum.”
“You have no idea.”
Her enthusiasm would’ve been infectious if I weren’t so consumed by my quest for the key.
