“I’ve got it,” Cosima whispered. “Where did it come from? It looks like it was part of the binding.”
Edie set the book down on the table again. “This page. I had my fingers between the pages, and that ribbon slipped past them.” She opened the book. There was a bit of crusty glue at the top of the binding where the ribbon had been attached for a bookmark.
Cosima smoothed it into place, then stopped. “Look at this.” She pointed to a guest’s signature and message from 1977.
Edie craned to see it over Cosima’s shoulder. “Are those littlesymbolson the message line?”
She reached around Cosima’s body and pinched the bottom of the page between her fingers. Only when Edie had nearly finished folding the page did Cosima see the crease. It went right through the middle of the page. It had been there already. Thebottom of the page neatly met the top, and then Cosima could make out where there were tiny holes cut out, framing the symbols perfectly, with more symbols written on a blank signature line on the folded-up page. Edie moved it back and forth. “For serious, Cosima, I think thisisa code!”
“A cipher. That’s what you’d call it. Not a code.” Cosima sat down. She wished she had a pen and paper.
Edie flopped bonelessly into the chair beside her. “No wonder Morag wouldn’t let us look inside. This book is filled with sinister English secrets.”
“So are you two ladies going to hunt for the treasure?”
Cosima and Edie screamed as Morag appeared in the dining room. She wore an ankle-length white linen nightgown. Her loose hair streamed nearly to her waist in silver ripples, and she held a collection of dripping hellebore in one hand.Lenten rose, Cosima thought automatically.
“Swear to god, Morag,” Edie panted. “I’m going to make you wear a bell.”
“What treasure?” Cosima asked.
“Agatha Llewellyn’s treasure.”
“Thenovelist?”
Morag ignored this question. “She put the first clue there in the book. I’ve never let anyone see it because the treasure’s meant for someone else. No guest of mine.”
Edie made a noise like a muffled squeak.
“So why wouldwehunt for it?” Cosima narrowed her eyes at Morag. There was something more complicated going on here than the modest legacy left by her mother. Agatha Llewellyn was a well-known Welsh author. Why didn’t she have a plaque of her own?
The old woman walked to the reception desk and placed the burgundy Lenten roses in a very fine blue-glazed Qing vase thatDuncan would have coveted desperately. “I’ve never had guests here who did nothing but hang about,” she said darkly. “The place needs an airing out from all the poverty and melancholy.” Her smile was just as dark. “And I have reasons of my own to think this would be a good way for the two of you to spend your time.”
Edie looked over, her face so nakedly pleading, Cosima nearly laughed.
“We’ll talk about it after breakfast,” she said diplomatically.
But she thought aboutTesoro, and the Castle, and Duncan’s careful reply to her text.
Her stomach hadn’t hurt, not for more than a minute, since Edie came into the lounge.
Maybe a treasure hunt was exactly the kind of rest a princess needed.
Chapter Six
Edie put her head down on the table in a fruitless attempt to settle down her restless body. She watched Cosima flip the bottom of the guest book page up and then down again while mumbling to herself and writing in a Gregory Place–branded spiral-top notepad that Morag had produced from the reception desk.
She had not counted on the amount of time required for code-breaking. Or on how little Cosima enjoyed being interrupted when she was trying to concentrate.
“Is the washing finished?” Edie asked Morag, visible through the open door to the kitchen. She was mixing up a quick bread with shredded carrots and raisins that she often served on the side with lunch. Edie had asked for the recipe a dozen times and been denied.
“Already have it on the drying rack by the radiator in the back. Your jacket must be dry.” Morag tipped the bowl toward her body when she noticed Edie was watching too closely, trying to guess the recipe.
“Don’t bother. I have a jacket for you in my room,” Cosima said.
“I will not fit into any of your jackets.” Edie sat up and stretched. The storm had stopped hours ago. It looked like the sun was out for the first time in a long time, but she didn’t want to leave Cosima to the guest book alone. She had already hogged it, working on Agatha Llewellyn’s cipher even as she refused to formally, officially commit to the treasure hunt.
“Of course you won’t. Why trade one ill-fitting jacket for another? It’s a jacket that will fityou.”
