She tilts her head. “I was thinking we should check the crack in the second dungeon.”
I grin. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
Her mouth quirks as if she’s wondering if I’m serious. I am, though maybe not entirely for her reasons. But until I know for sure, I play along.
“There were also weird noises,” I say, listing with my fingers, “an odd smell, scuff marks on the wall… I’d say that’s worth a look.”
She nods. “You’re observant. It could be structural damage needing repair.”
“Urgent repair,” I echo, keeping my tone as innocent as I can.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re thinking about your quickie proposal from earlier, aren’t you?”
“One hundred percent,” I admit.
Her lips part in mock outrage. “And here I was taking this seriously.”
“Oh, I’m serious, too.”
She rolls her eyes but heads toward the old wing. I fall in step with her, my hands in my pockets.
Fort Vauclairt feels quieter with Millie gone and half the staff off for the weekend. It’s the kind of quiet that lets you hear the low hum of the ancient wiring and the muted creaks of the floor under our feet.
“You really think it might be something?” I ask.
“The crack?” She shrugs. “Probably nothing. But I can’t explain the smell or the noises.”
I lower my voice conspiratorially. “Yeah, noises in old stone buildings are never just the wind.”
She shoots me a sidelong glance. “You’re not helping.”
“Not trying to.”
She grins. I smile back, realizing I’ve never felt this playful, or flirted this outrageously in my thirty-nine years.
What can I say, I’m a late bloomer.
We turn into the cold, narrow corridor leading to the stairwell. I’m already thinking about how tight the dungeon will be, how close she’ll be to me, how easy it’ll be to?—
We’re here to inspect the crack,I remind myself.Allegedly.
The stairwell is a shadow pit. The overhead bulb is dead. I switch on the flashlight and sweep it over the narrow steps.
“Watch your footing,” I say to Eva, offering my free hand.
She takes it. Her grip is a little tense. I resist the urge to caress the tension out of her.
We start down slowly. The stones are uneven. The railing wobbles if leaned on too hard. I keep the beam steady ahead.
Finally, we’re at the trapdoor. I pull the folded ladder from its brackets and let it down. The wood creaks but holds as I step onto the first rung.
“If this thing collapses,” I say, “you can gloat from above.”
“Oh, I will.”
I shift my weight, testing the ladder that feels wobblier than it did last night. The flashlight beam slices through dust motes swirling in stale air. My boots find each rung carefully, the metal cool and slightly damp under my grip. When I hit the stone floor, and the sound echoes. I sweep the light in a slow arc—low ceiling, uneven flagstone, shadows clinging to the walls.
“Clear,” I call up.
