Because I want to get out of here more than anything else, I ask, “Where’s the entrance?”
She doesn’t look at me when she responds. “Beneath the altar.”
I whirl on Bes. “You promised I wouldn’t have to see that damn altar.”
“Unfortunately, we no longer have a choice,” Bes says. “I can blindfold you, if you wish.”
Cec speaks up. “Believe me, no one should be wishing for that.”
Mara cuts in. “There’s no mass right now, maybe a few people praying in the pews. We shouldn’t have an audience.”
Bes finally drops my hand to remove the gun from its holster on his hip. “And we don’t have time for a different plan. Let’s move.”
Mara leads us up the wooden steps at the back of the room and quietly opens the door at the top, corralling us into the sanctuary. Luckily, since we’re already near the back of the church, the altar lies directly in front of us.
We come at it from the side, crossing the light gray, white-veined stone floor toward the altar table as quickly and quietly as possible. Colored light streams in softly from the magnificent stained-glass windows above us, though we still require the light from the burning candles to see properly. The room reeks of incense—I nearly choke on it.
I glance out into the white, high-arched room beyond the pulpit. Soft candlelight warms the layers of rounded arches. One or two souls populate the pews with their heads bowed in prayer; otherwise, it’s empty, as Mara predicted. The silence is a double-edged sword, though: we have to be careful about breathing too loud, much less anything more. I know all too well how sounds echo inside a church.
The four of us crouch down behind the table, our forms hidden by the altar linens. At the thought of getting caught by the Liechtenstein Nazis, my pulse thunders against the amulet.This had better work.
Mara pauses to listen before carefully pulling up the rug beneath the table. Once it’s out of the way, she yanks on the metal ring of what I now recognize to be a wooden trap door and props it open. I wince at the brief shrieking of the metal hinges.We’re running out of time.Any minute now, those fascists will find us and I’m not sure I’m in the right place mentally to be tortured, nor to watch them torture Bes, or Cec.
For all of us to die because I insisted on doing this just to prove some point.
Mara climbs down the metal rungs first, guiding Cec down second. I’m next, with Bes the last to follow. I traverse the last couple rungs, slippery with moisture, to help with my descent onto the small stone shelf below. Looking up, Bes holsters his gun before pulling the rug over the door as best he can with only his good arm. It closes softly.
Darkness engulfs us.
Only for a moment, though. A click sounds in the dark and light streams from a flashlight in Mara’s hand.
“A torch,” Bes sighs. “Brilliant.”
“That’s no torch,” I tell him as Mara hands me my own. “You’ll confuse Cec if you call it that.”
“I’m in a constant state of confusion, Hawkins,” Cec explains. “Calling a flashlight a torch isn’t going to change that.”
“While I’m inclined to agree with Miss Hawkins on this one,” Mara interrupts, handing one to Bes as well, “we should get moving.”
I shine the flashlight in front of me. The ledge dips down into what I hope is an underground tunnel—which Cec and Mara have already slipped past.
Approaching it, I have to nearly lie on my back to get through.And the fit’s a bit tight.My feet quickly hit the hard ground, though, and then Bes lands beside me. There’s no more than an inch between us. Our breaths mingle in the cool air, our faces barely lit.
He swallows hard and attempts to move. Instead, he stumbles over my foot and staggers into me, forcing both his hands to land against the rock on either side of my hips.
Neither of us makes the first move to step away. The heat of him presses through my clothes, and the memory of our kiss in the Archives resurfaces. He shifts closer, and my gaze lands on his lips and back to his softening brown eyes. I start to reach for him…
Hurt and anger slash across his face.
I glance away.I deserve that.
He steps back as much as he can, his fingers still managing to brush my waist as he moves away from me and down the passage. I fight off a shiver, wishing he’d touched me. Wishing I hadn’t overreacted in the first place.
Wishing I’d apologized when I had the chance.
When the path we’re on doesn’t immediately widen, mild fear gurgles up my throat and tightens my stomach.
“Have I mentioned I’m not great in tight spaces?”
