Page 129 of Under Arthur’s Protection

You can do this.

I unhooked my foot, and my whole body swung like a pendulum. I wasn’t strong enough to fight the momentum and hit the floor. Pain radiated up my spine, and I bit back a yelp.

No shouts. No sound of running. Just the far-away sounds of supper.

The corridor stretched in both directions, with closed doors on either side and sconces on the walls, most of them unlit. To my left, the staircase I’d come up. To my right, the hallway turned a corner toward what I guessed was another wing.

Go left. Down the stairs. Find a door.

But go where? The boat ride from Tintagel had taken at least forty minutes through fog so thick I couldn’t see the coastline. I could be anywhere in Cornwall. Soon, it would be dark outside, and I’d be on the run on a property full of men who knew every inch of it.

I turned left anyway. Down was better than up. Closer to a door or an open window was the smarter option.

The back staircase was narrow and dark, its treads sagging in the middle. I kept to the edge, hoping the stairs would creak less. On the ground floor, a long hallway led to the rear door they’d brought me in through, but I’d have to pass the mouths of other hallways. Every corner was a chance for them to find me.

Upstairs, all of the rooms had closed doors. Down here, two doors stood open ahead of me. I crept down the hallway, listening to the distant sounds of supper and for movement in the rooms along my route.

But then footsteps.

Coming from an offshoot hallway closer to the exit.

My heart leaped into my throat.

Someone was coming closer—two someones, talking about food.

The nearest door was to my left, set back slightly in the paneled wall. I pressed myself to the wall outside of it, took a deep breath, and peeked inside. Empty. A study or office. I slipped inside, eased the door nearly shut, leaving a crack so the latch wouldn’t click.

I listened from behind the door. The voices grew louder. Keep walking. Please, keep walking.

The voices came closer. “I should check on the girl.”

“What do they think she’s going to do?” asked the other voice. “Break down the bloody door?”

“You saw her try to jump out of the boat.” The first one sounded like Big Hands. “Maybe she’ll jump out the window, break her neck, and save us all the headache.”

The men continued past the study, and I let out the quietest breath I could. My pulse raced so fast my hands shook.

Move, Gwen. Now, before they come back.

I turned to check the room I’d ducked into, and my breath caught. Dark walnut paneling lined two walls, carved into deep rectangular frames. Bookshelves covered the other two, and the ceiling had been painted with a classical battle scene. But against the far wall, near the tall, barred stained-glass windows, sat an ornate desk with a small green lamp.

And the sword case.

My feet moved before my brain reminded them we were supposed to be escaping. I took three steps toward it before pulling myself back. The sword wouldn’t help me. The sword was why I was here, but it wasn’t going to get me out.

You should leave. Right now. Through that door, across the hall, out into the property, and run before someone realizes you’re gone.

But the spread of documents, maps, and folders across the desk drew me forward. They were stacked like someone had been working recently and would be coming back. Did any of them explain the inscriptions, the symbol, or why Dr. Hopkins was chasing people from Tintagel?

One minute. Just one minute.

I went to the desk.

Maps first. Topographical maps of the Cornwall coast, with three red circles and annotations in a cramped script I couldn’t read fast enough. I moved them aside.

Folders lay beneath the maps. I opened the top one. Inside, correspondence on heavy paper. Some typed, some handwritten in a formal, old-fashioned hand. Those letters used code words like “the Seat,” “the Passage,” and “the Warden.” One referenced “continued stewardship of the site at,” but the next word was lost in a tangle of flourishes. What I would have given to have my phone or my camera.

Another discussed “the necessity of redirecting academic inquiry” and bore a familiar name in the address: Dr. Theodore Hopkins.