Surrey, England—1806
Sarah Courtenay had no choice but to put more effort into breathing evenly and more deeply, hoping to ease the sharp pain in her side as she quickened her pace in order to return home before the diffusing gray of dusk transformed into the dark blanket of night. She’d started out more than an hour earlier with the intention of simply taking a brisk walk to ease her nervous energy and get some much-needed fresh air. Following the disturbing conversation she’d had with her father sharing tea together in his room, her head had been spinning with confusion, astonishment, and perhaps even fear. Without a doubt, Oswald Courtenay was a reasonable and rational man; he’d always been known for his kindness and was well-liked by everyone who knew him. Sarah and her father had always been close, and they’d become even closer as they’d shared the common grief of losing her mother to an unexpected illness two years earlier. They’d enjoyed many outings together and had even done some traveling, which had aided their healing process. Sarah had just begun to feel hopeful that she could get beyond the grief of losing her mother when Oswald had taken ill. The symptoms of dizziness and weakness had come on slowly but had continued to worsen. Consulting three different doctors had given them no answers to his mysterious ailment. Sarah and her father were apparently meant to simply accept that there were many illnesses that even the best doctors didn’t know about or understand; therefore, nothing could be done except to try odd tinctures that might soothe Oswald’s symptoms. Some things they’d tried had proved worthless; others had helped, but their effectiveness had worn off. Subsequently, Oswald’s illness had grown steadily worse over the last few months; nothing had eased his growing weakness, and he’d been confined to bed for many weeks now.
Sarah spent a great deal of time in her father’s room—at least when he was aware enough to enjoy her company. They shared tea together every day and occasionally shared other meals, and they talked about a great many things—as if he knew he was likely dying and wanted to give her every piece of advice he could think of. Sarah indulged him in such conversations, even though she was convinced he would get past this and make a full recovery. But today Oswald had spoken things to Sarah that almost made her wonder if his illness was causing him to hallucinate or become somehow hysterical. She had not previously seen signs of any such anomalies, but how else might she explain his sudden need to tell her about family secrets and a supposed curse on the Courtenay name, as well as a great treasure that was coveted enough to kill for? He’d rambled about the reason she was an only child, since her mother had miscarried three babies, losing them before the halfway point of her pregnancy—as if that somehow indicated that a curse existed in the family rather than simply being a medical problem, as it had always been referred to before now. Her father also jabbered almost incoherently about the tragic death of his grandfather, as if he’d always believed it had been caused by the very fact that he had borne the Courtenay name, which had therefore cursed him, rather than simply being a tragic accident. In addition, he referred to two other incidents in the family, difficult things that had happened to both himself and his father, as if they too were indications of a curse, when Sarah had always believed these were easily categorized as the typical challenges human beings encountered during the course of their lives. Had her father suddenly come to see them as evidence of a curse? Or had he carried this belief all his life and simply hadn’t spoken of it? Sarah had never heard her father refer to these things in this way before and she was more than taken off guard. She had listened and asked some questions, which he’d answered in ways that hadn’t helped clarify her understanding at all. Once he’d fallen asleep, Sarah had sat in a chair near his bed stewing over everything he’d just said, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do about it. She’d finally concluded that they would simply have to talk again after supper and had impulsively decided some fresh air would help clear her head.
The days were getting shorter as autumn marched steadily toward winter, but it had been a particularly pleasant day and Sarah felt plenty warm as she stepped outside, wrapped in a lightweight cloak as black as her unmanageable black curls that hung far past her shoulders in complete disarray. Her hair had been partially put up and pinned into place at the back of her head to keep it from hanging in her eyes, but it had been decided a long time ago that attempting to put all her hair up in a more proper style was generally a waste of time since it never stayed in place for long, no matter how many pins were used. And with the weight of her hair, having it pinned up often caused headaches, which Sarah simply wouldn’t tolerate. So she defied society and left her hair hanging in its unruly state and didn’t care if anyone considered her doing so was improper.
Sarah’s intention had been to take a quick walk around the grounds, but she’d become lost in her heavy thoughts and had wandered much farther from home than she’d realized until she found herself far into the woods with the sudden awareness that the sun had gone down, and its remaining light was quickly diminishing. She’d hurried out of the woods and across the vast expanse of moors and meadows toward her home. Not keen on being outside and alone in the dark pushed her forward with haste, despite her growing breathlessness and the ongoing sharpness in her side, which seemed to be taunting her over the fact that she wasn’t accustomed to walking so far and so fast, and she’d do well to acquire better habits in that regard.
Sarah was relieved to come over the crest of a hill and see Castle Courtenay come into view, with glowing lanterns illuminating her goal of the front door, and lights flickering in many of the uniquely shaped windows. She was glad to share her surname with that of her home, since it was a fine and beautiful structure, and she’d known much happiness within its walls and in the surrounding gardens and open fields that spread out around the castle in every direction like a cozy quilt displaying a brilliant variety of color in spring and summer when the flowers were in bloom—but those colors had faded now with the cold winds of autumn. Still, Sarah believed that her ancestor—a few centuries back—who had built and named the house, must have been an arrogant man. By no means could this structure—as spacious and beautiful as it was—be defined as a castle. It had lovely turrets at each corner that rose into peaked roofs, and the gray stone had been forged and structured in a way that lent an air of what she imagined to be the legendary palaces of centuries gone by. But Castle Courtenay was smaller, if anything, than other elegant manor houses in the county; therefore, referring to it as a castle often felt a little embarrassing. And she blamed her ancestor centuries back for putting the family in the position of having to apologize for their home bearing a far more grandiose name than it needed or deserved. Now, Sarah wondered over the things her father had said about family secrets and curses, and she wondered if her father was losing his mind, or if this house with which she shared a name actually had menacing qualities she’d never thought possible.
Sarah didn’t really care about the name of her home; she was simply glad to be able to call it home and to feel safe and loved there—a fact she focused on as she pushed away the nonsense her father had been sharing with her earlier. She far preferred to consider it nonsense, which was easier to digest than any other possible explanation. By the time she reached the door it was completely dark, and she breathed deep relief to step into the well-lighted foyer. She sat down in a conveniently placed comfortable chair where an unannounced guest might be left to wait. She was glad to be able to sit there alone and unnoticed for several minutes while she drew in deep breaths and blew them out slowly until her breathing returned to normal and the pain in her side slipped away.
Sarah became so completely relaxed that she hadn’t realized she was close to dozing until the sound of hurried footsteps coming closer startled her back to full consciousness. She lifted her head and turned to see Poppy—her personal maid and cherished friend—coming briskly toward her. Poppy’s expression of panic jolted Sarah to her feet.
“Oh, there you are!” Poppy said, as out of breath as Sarah had been when she’d come through the door and plopped into the chair.
“What is it?” Sarah demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your father, dearie,” Poppy said between her attempts to take in even breaths. Having been born and raised in the Scottish Highlands, Poppy couldn’t speak without her origin being readily evident. “He’s taken a sudden turn for the worse; we don’t know why. The doctor’s been sent for, but . . .” Her attempt to explain faded into silence, perhaps because she didn’t know what to say, or perhaps because Sarah was running toward the stairs and likely wouldn’t have heard the rest of what Poppy had to say anyway.
Sarah lifted her skirts high and bounded up the grand staircase in a very unladylike manner, barely aware of Poppy coming behind her, both of them quickly becoming out of breath again. Sarah deliberately threw off any effort to be ladylike as she conquered the stairs and ran down one long hall, and then another, oblivious to whether Poppy was keeping up. Sarah paused for only a moment outside the door to her father’s bedroom, which had been left open. She took one deep breath, then another, before she entered, still breathless but not caring. She stood for only a second just inside the door to take in the scene, which was typical—but never had it been so somber. A chill rushed down her back and made her shudder, as if the angel of death was declaring its presence in the room. She scolded herself for such a ludicrous thought, although she couldn’t deny that her father looked paler and sallower than she’d ever seen him. He was propped up in his bed with a great many pillows, and she might have believed him to be dead already if not for the obvious rise and fall of his chest—but the evidence of his breathing caused her even more concern, since it was clearly strained.
It was not unusual to find Mr. Halford sitting beside the bed, reading and willing to do anything to help Oswald, but his countenance showed his frustration over knowing there was nothing he could do, and his fear that the end was finally drawing near for this man he’d served loyally for decades. Halford had worked as a valet for Oswald Courtenay since long before Sarah was born. He was to Oswald what Poppy was to Sarah. They were inseparable, with a friendship that was deeply integrated into their working relationship. Halford’s brown hair was thick for his age, and he wore it combed back off his face in a way that made him look younger than his years. But then, his leanness and agility also contributed to his youthful appearance, as did his soft facial features—completely devoid of the slightest wrinkle. Overall, he conveyed an image of a much younger man. He was old enough to be Sarah’s father, but he could perhaps pass for her older brother—except that they looked nothing alike.
Attempting to not sound as if she’d been running, Sarah took in another deep breath before she stepped carefully to her father’s bedside and put a hand on Halford’s shoulder, which startled him from such deep thought that it was evident he’d not heard her enter the room.
“Tell me,” she whispered, disconcerted with the way her father didn’t respond to her voice. It was typical of him to turn his head toward any sound that indicated a newcomer to his bedside, and Halford often joked about how his lengthy illness had not affected his hearing. Sarah couldn’t believe it had only been a couple of hours since he’d been speaking to her—weak and a little breathless, but certainly conscious and alert.
With his concerned eyes focused on Sarah’s father, Halford said quietly, “After you left, we were talking and it’s as if he just . . . fell asleep right in the middle of a sentence—and I couldn’t wake him.” Halford’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t wake him. I don’t know what to do.”
Sarah felt certain she should console him in some way, but she honestly couldn’t think of a single word that might make any difference. She gently squeezed his shoulder where her hand was still resting before she sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of her father’s hand, startled by how cold it felt. She attempted to wake him, even though Halford had already assured her it was impossible. Still, he observed her efforts expectantly, as if he hoped she might be able to accomplish what he’d been unable to do. But Oswald remained completely unresponsive and looking very much dead except for the evidence of his strained breathing—which was becoming noisier and more labored.
“What’s happened?” Penelope Courtenay screeched as she burst into the room like some kind of large bird, her bright-pink taffeta gown rustling with her every movement. Sarah loved her father’s sister dearly. She’d never married and had always lived here at the castle and had therefore been an integral part of Sarah’s life. Penelope looked very much like Oswald; they both had the same long face and large eyes, and they’d both gone prematurely gray, which had made Oswald look more dignified since he wore it well. However, it had only made Penelope look older than her years, but perhaps that was due more to the way she wore it pinned up in an elaborate style that was common among the elderly. In spite of Penelope’s tendency to be overly dramatic, and her many obvious eccentricities—such as being dressed in such an audacious gown when she had no intention of leaving the house or receiving guests—Sarah loved her beyond words. Penelope had a talent for being compassionate and supportive during difficult times—even if her methods came with a generous helping of drama.
“What’s happened?” Penelope repeated, squeezing her slightly plump body between the bed where her brother lay and the chair where Halford was sitting. Halford eased out of the chair in order to avoid any awkwardness and began to slowly pace the room while he gave Penelope the same brief explanation he’d given Sarah.
Penelope’s response to this information was to speak so loudly to her brother that she was practically shouting in his face, as if that alone might accomplish what Halford and Sarah had been unable to do. But Oswald didn’t show the tiniest response to his sister’s shouting, except perhaps that his breathing took on more of a rattling sound.
The doctor arrived while Penelope continued to shout at her brother to the point where Sarah felt hard-pressed not to shout at her and tell her to be quiet. As much as she loved her aunt, there were times when the woman’s flamboyant personality grated on her nerves. But then, there were things about her father that elicited the same feelings. However, that didn’t make her care for either of them any less. Still, she was relieved by the doctor’s intrusion, which forced Penelope away from the bed—and to subside into silence—while the doctor examined Oswald closely, asking a few questions as he did so. Sarah explained her father’s strange behavior when she’d last spoken to him, then the room became eerily still, especially in contrast to Aunt Penelope’s attempts to shout her brother into consciousness. The doctor’s examination seemed to go on and on, even though Sarah knew he was being quick and efficient. Dr. Turnlow was wise and sharp, and he’d cared for this family for so long that he’d delivered Sarah when she was born. He’d always been as kind as he was knowledgeable and thorough. If anything at all could be done for her father, Dr. Turnlow would know. Sarah observed impatiently while she prayed in her mind that something could be done; this couldn’t be the end. It just couldn’t. She felt as if she were barely recovering from the loss of her mother. How could she lose her father now? Like this? With so much mystery surrounding the very reasons for his illness?
When the doctor had apparently finished, he stood up straight and his eyes went first to Sarah. It took her only a moment to realize why. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest even before she heard Dr. Turnlow say, “There’s nothing more to be done, my dear. He’s very near to death as we speak.” Sarah let out a mournful gasp which she forced back by clapping a hand over her mouth. “I don’t know why, Sarah; I have no answers. But I know death when I see it. And I know you . . .” he took a quick glance around the room but set his eyes again on Sarah, “all of you . . . expect me to be honest and not skirt around the point.” He sighed, and his expression held nothing but genuine compassion. “I would be surprised if he lasts more than an hour.” Sarah whimpered behind the hand still covering her mouth. “But I don’t believe he’s in any pain. I’m so sorry, so very, very sorry.”
The moment the doctor stopped speaking, Penelope burst into boisterous wailing. Sarah got hold of herself enough to swallow her own shock, walk across the room, and take hold of her aunt’s shoulders. “Aunt Penelope,” she said firmly, “you know I love you dearly, but if you cannot be still, I will insist on your leaving the room. I wish for my father to die peacefully. We will all do our crying later . . . in the privacy of our own rooms. Do you understand?”
Penelope gulped, then coughed, then nodded. “Forgive me, my dear,” she said and sniffled.
They hugged tightly while Sarah said, “I know it’s difficult, but we must be strong.”
Sarah couldn’t believe she was even capable of speaking such words. She didn’t feel strong at all, and she couldn’t begin to comprehend this was actually happening. She felt certain the only reason she was able to say such things to her aunt was the knowledge that if Penelope didn’t keep still while they shared her father’s bedside vigil—waiting for him to die—she would end up shouting at her, and she didn’t want to mar her father’s death by creating more drama.
The doctor took a chair in a far corner of the room, saying quietly, “I’ll be right here if you need me.” Sarah was distracted by the memory of him doing and saying exactly the same when her mother was dying. The idea passed briefly through her mind that perhaps this meant her parents would be together. The thought gave her the tiniest bit of comfort, although it was too tiny to compete with the volcanic rumbling of grief and horror that she was barely managing to keep suppressed—but she would not allow herself to become a hypocrite by losing control of her emotions when she had so firmly put Penelope in her place.
Sarah, Penelope, and Halford were the only people in the room—besides the doctor—while they waited for what Dr. Turnlow had declared was inevitable. The silence became increasingly eerie as Oswald’s breathing became increasingly difficult. Each breath rattled more than the last, and the length between them grew longer. Sarah found herself holding her breath, waiting for her father to breathe again, until she found her lungs burning and she had to let the air out. When Oswald drew his last breath, Sarah glanced at the clock and realized it had been a little over half an hour since the doctor had declared Oswald likely wouldn’t last more than an hour.
Sarah couldn’t believe it. He was gone! He was really gone! Halford sat quietly and wiped at silent tears streaming down his face. Penelope pressed her face to her brother’s shoulder and sobbed quietly—at least far more quietly than her normal sobbing, likely still mindful of Sarah’s edict. Sarah bravely touched her father’s face and hand, startled by their coldness and the immediate awareness overcoming her that this was no longer her father, but a lifeless shell. She kissed his cold brow, whispered that she loved him, and hurried from the room, knowing that the rumbling inside of her would refuse to remain in submission much longer, and she had no desire to burst into helpless sobbing in front of everyone else.
Sarah ran through long hallways, up one flight of stairs, and down another, and then through more hallways before she finally arrived at her own room where her breathlessness lurched into painful, heaving sobs. She barely managed to get to her bed before she collapsed from the weight of the realization that her father was really dead. They’d had tea together not so many hours ago; they’d talked and laughed earlier today. How could this have happened so quickly? So horribly?
Poppy came to check on Sarah, tearfully telling her that she’d just heard the news. “Is there anything I can get for you?” Poppy asked with her usual tender kindness. “Anything I can do?”
“No,” Sarah said, “but thank you. I just . . . need some time alone.”
“Of course, dearie,” Poppy said. “I’ll check back a little later.”
Sarah nodded, and Poppy left the room, clearly overcome with emotion herself. She was only a few years older than Sarah, and had grown up in this household, the niece of the head butler—a man who had passed away the year prior to the passing of Sarah’s mother. Poppy had been taught the fine points of being a lady’s maid—mostly because she was such a good friend to Sarah that Sarah had begged her father to make it possible for Poppy to be able to work directly with her so they could maintain their friendship more easily by spending time together every day. Poppy took very good care of Sarah, in ways that Sarah could have never imagined. She was like a mother, a sister, a friend, and a maid all mixed together into one amazing young woman. The two were a stark contrast in appearance, but in every other way they were perfectly matched. Poppy’s hair was straight and blonde and stayed obediently wherever it was pinned, and she had a well-rounded figure that Sarah considered far more feminine than her own narrow hips and lack of waistline—something the dressmakers commented on each time she was fitted for anything new. But none of that mattered, because Poppy was an angel. Sarah knew she would likely return later with a supper tray, which Sarah would likely declare she couldn’t eat, but Poppy would insist, and they would eat together—and cry together—and Sarah would be able to keep going because Poppy would make certain that she did.
Sarah cried until she felt all dried up, then her mind wandered through the strange conversation she’d had with her father earlier this afternoon. Recalling it now, she gasped. It was almost as if he’d known he was close to death, as if he’d passed on great secrets that would have likely been meant to be given to Oswald’s son and heir—except that Sarah was an only child; therefore, she was the only one to whom he could pass anything on. Sarah convinced herself that what he’d told her was nonsense—which wasn’t difficult considering that some of it made no sense at all—but she concluded there was one thing he’d told her that she could verify easily enough.
Sarah jumped off her bed and crossed the room to the beautifully carved wooden jewelry box that had been her mother’s. Since her mother’s death it had been right in this very spot, given to her by her father—along with all its contents. For Sarah, the sentimentality of the jewels meant more than their actual monetary value, and she’d rarely worn anything from the box. But her father had told her today that it had some kind of secret drawer or something where a key was hidden. She picked the box up, even though it was large and slightly heavy, turning it over to examine every angle, pushing and prodding at every line where wood met wood in the fine craftsmanship. When that proved fruitless, she opened and closed every drawer more than once. She took them all the way out and put them back—more than once. Then she noticed something unusual. She emptied the contents from the small, flat-bottom drawer and stuck her fingernail into a tiny notch at the edge where the bottom met the side. She was surprised by how easily the bottom of the drawer lifted up, and there before her was a key. Sarah gasped and stared at it, then gasped again. If her father had not been delusional about this key, what did that mean regarding everything else he’d told her? She hardly wanted to rethink the things he’d said, let alone repeat them to anyone. And given the secretive—even frightened—way he’d told her, she believed it wise to not tell anyone. Not even Poppy. Not yet, at least.
Glancing at the clock, Sarah knew the usual suppertime was nearly over, and Poppy would likely give her a little more time to get hungry enough to be convinced to eat. If she wanted to keep all this a secret from Poppy, Sarah had very little time to see if this key was actually what her father had told her it was. She tucked the key inside her bodice since she didn’t have any pockets, and carefully put back the false bottom of the drawer and replaced its contents before setting the jewelry box back so carefully that even the bare hint of dust that would be cleaned away tomorrow didn’t look disturbed.
Sarah was about to sneak out of the room when she heard Poppy’s familiar knock at the door. Sarah took two huge steps and literally leaped onto her bed to give the appearance that she’d never left it. And she actually managed to do so before Poppy peeked inside, and when she saw that Sarah appeared to just be waking up, she offered a wan smile and opened the door more widely in order to come inside with a supper tray laden with enough food for both of them.
Sarah didn’t feel any appetite, even though the growling of her stomach kept trying to convince her that she needed to eat, as if it were in solidarity with Poppy in her insistence that Sarah needed to keep up her strength because of the difficult forthcoming days. Sarah didn’t even want to think about what would happen next. As she forced herself to dig into a steak and kidney pie that looked too beautifully crafted to eat, her mind was more preoccupied with whether or not the key she’d found would actually open what her father had told her it would. Oh, how she wanted to be able to go back to his room and talk to him about it! But he was gone. Her mind knew the truth, even though something in her spirit seemed hesitant to accept it. But he was gone, and whatever secretive messages he’d passed on to her were now her responsibility.
While Sarah ate far more of her piece of treacle tart than she’d intended, she convinced herself once again that her father’s talk of secrets and family curses was nonsense. Still, she only had to go where he’d told her to go and see if the key worked. But she didn’t know when doing so without being noticed might even be possible.
Later that evening, after Poppy had helped make certain Sarah had everything she needed for the night, Sarah felt a sudden urgency to return to her father’s room and see his body again before it was taken from the place where he’d died. She’d become so caught up in her own grief, and the desire to not be observed in her frequent bursts of tears, that she’d overlooked her need to be assured that Oswald Courtenay had really passed from this world. She had her memories of touching his cold, lifeless hands and face, and she didn’t doubt the truth of his death. Still, she felt drawn back to her father’s room and put on a dressing gown and slippers to trek her way across the enormous structure to what had become her favorite part of the house during the months her father had been bedridden with his illness. They had talked and laughed, had shared meals and teas. But now it was all different. Even before she arrived at the door to his bedroom, she could feel the difference, and she entered the open doorway to see nothing but darkness except for the circle of light created by the lamp she’d brought along to guide her. Approaching the bed, she found her father’s body gone and the bed made up as if nothing unusual had taken place here not so many hours ago.
Disappointed that the undertaker had already come for her father’s body, Sarah reminded herself that she would be able to see his body in its casket before he was buried, but the very idea felt so strange and surreal that she shuddered and had to focus on breathing evenly, not wanting to break out in tears when she was so far away from the safety of her own rooms—even if no one else in the house was likely even awake. Then an idea occurred to Sarah, and with fresh energy she hurried back to her room and retrieved the mysterious key.
With the key tucked safely in the pocket of her dressing gown, Sarah took up the lamp again and moved quietly and carefully through the house and slowly down to a room she had never known existed. Even as she worked her way toward it, a part of her doubted its existence. She had lived in this house her entire life and had never been in any such room, but then according to her father’s directions, it was well hidden and not meant to be found without being told about it—which was something passed on as an oral tradition from father to son, or in her case, daughter.
Sarah crept into a pantry-like room, feeling as if she were some kind of burglar intent on stealing its contents. She’d known there were many pantries in the house, but this one was some distance from the kitchen, and the door was set back from the hallway, as if it were trying to avoid ever being noticed. She stood in the center of the room and held the lamp high, surveying the back wall, which appeared perfectly normal with a few barrels and sacks stacked in front of it—as she would expect to find in a pantry where food for a large household was stored. But the room was thick with dust and cobwebs, and she knew no one had been in here for many years, which made her wonder what exactly might be stored here. She sighed at the realization that she would have to move those barrels and sacks herself in order to get to the wall, which her father had declared could be opened, revealing a secret compartment behind it. A part of Sarah doubted the validity of such a claim because it had sounded so ludicrous, but he’d been right about the key in her mother’s jewelry box. And perhaps if nothing else, this little escapade was keeping her from thinking about her father’s death. She knew it would be impossible to sleep right now, so she might as well be moving sacks and barrels.
Sarah took a deep breath and resigned herself to doing work that a strong manservant was likely meant to do. She knew there were men who worked in this house who were sent into town with a large wagon in order to acquire supplies, which would then be put into one of the pantries for storage. But this room hadn’t been used for a very long time and she wondered if anyone in the household beyond her father—and now her—had even noticed its existence. Sarah steeled herself to just get this done, even if it meant aching muscles tomorrow. The two barrels that were sitting on top of other barrels were surprisingly light and she wondered if they were only here to make the room appear like a pantry, when in truth it had a different purpose. Moving every sack and barrel away from the wall took some time, but nothing was heavy enough to make her think there was anything significant inside of them. When she had moved everything, she stood before the wall, which looked completely ordinary, and sighed. Had all that work been for nothing? Had her father been losing his mind as he’d crept closer to death?
Sarah moved the lamp closer and set it down so that it illuminated the wall more clearly. She pressed her hands over every part of the smooth wood slats that comprised the wall—at least as far as she could reach—and felt nothing unusual. Sarah even stood on one of the barrels and moved it a couple of times to examine what she wouldn’t have been able to reach otherwise, but that also proved unsuccessful. She moved her fingers carefully along the edges of the wall where they met with the adjoining walls and still felt nothing . . . except . . . She’d barely noticed the little notch against the edge of the wall and had to move her fingers over it several times to be convinced that it was anything more than a slight flaw in the wood. But she recalled how the false bottom of the drawer in her mother’s jewelry box had been accessed by a tiny opening. Wondering if the same concept might be true here, she attempted to get her finger into the notch enough to see if doing so would make it possible for her to open some portion of the wall. But even her tiniest finger wouldn’t quite fit. She looked around the room and saw a crowbar lying on top of a barrel on the other side of the room. It was surely here to open the barrels when needed. Unless . . . the barrels weren’t meant to be opened. Sarah picked it up and put the end of the tool into the tiny notch, amazed at how perfectly it fit, and pushed on the handle, wondering if she might end up just damaging an otherwise fine wall. But she gasped when one of the long slats of wood that comprised the wall popped open as easily as the bottom of the drawer in the jewelry box. The wall had been carefully constructed for this purpose; she could see it now. When closed, the slats all looked perfectly even and unsuspicious. But now that one of them was partially open, it looked as if all the craftsmanship surrounding it had been purposely designed to hide this particular feature.
Sarah recalled again what her father had said, and how fantastical it had seemed. Would she really find here what he’d told her she would find? The thought seemed too incredible to be true. But if it was true, then she had to do as he had asked—which was to remove the contents from this place before someone he didn’t trust got their hands on what was hidden here. Sarah had no idea who else might know about this, but her father had seemed convinced that what had meant to be a secret passed from one heir of Courtenay to the next had been discovered by someone else, and he didn’t want what was rightfully hers to fall into the wrong hands. He’d told her to take it, keep it, guard it carefully—for he had declared that he truly believed the person who was in possession of what lay behind this wall would be protected and preserved from the evil curse that had been placed upon the Courtenay family many generations back. It all sounded like a fairy tale to Sarah, but she took a deep breath and reached out to open the wooden slat more fully, surprised by the way it swung on a cleverly hidden hinge. However long unused the hinge was, it still swung open with little effort, but Sarah couldn’t see anything of what was inside the secret compartment. She lifted the lamp directly in front of it and saw a long box that fit so perfectly into the hidden space—with only less than an inch of space above it and at each end—that Sarah knew the compartment had been specifically designed to hide this box and nothing else. Sarah set down the lamp and carefully eased the box out, noting how much dust came with it, which fell on the floor and clung to her hands. The box had obviously been in there a long time.
Holding the box in her hands, Sarah felt an inner trembling—both her heart and her stomach were suddenly wobbling like a perfectly baked custard. She wanted to open the box here and now but felt hesitant to do so. Instead she leaned the long, narrow box against the barrels of a different wall before she carefully closed the secret compartment and assured herself that the wall looked as normal as she had found it. She moved the dust on the floor around with her foot so that it was scattered enough to not even be visible. Just as carefully, she put back the barrels and sacks exactly as she’d found them, more than once comparing their appearance to her memory and making small adjustments. She noticed a broom in one corner and used it to swirl the dust on the floor around enough to disguise any evidence that someone had been in here. Once she was satisfied that everything in the room looked exactly as it had when she’d entered, Sarah figured out a way to carry the long box beneath her dressing gown with her arm wrapped securely around it. She doubted she would come across anyone in the house on her way back to her room, and even if she did it would be impossible for anyone to not notice that she was carrying some strange object beneath her dressing gown—as large as it was—but she still figured that was better than carrying the box unconcealed and having someone see it—and see that she had it. According to her father there was someone in this house who could not be trusted; she had no idea who that might be, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
After carefully closing the pantry door, Sarah hurried back through the maze of Castle Courtenay to her own room, carrying the lamp in one hand, and barely managing to keep hold of the box with her other arm while attempting to keep it concealed. Creeping silently through long hallways and up various staircases, it occurred to Sarah that she hadn’t needed the key in her pocket to retrieve the box, and she wondered why. When she finally got back to her own room, she set the box on the floor on the other side of her bed with the thought that if anyone came into the room, they wouldn’t be able to see it, or see her opening it. She knew the very idea of anyone coming to her room at this time of night was ridiculous, but the discovery of this box had brought on a sudden and severe paranoia. That same paranoia prompted her to lock both doors to her room—one that went into the hallway, and the other into her sitting room. She then checked behind the draperies, under the bed, and even inside her wardrobe to make certain she was completely alone. Even while she was carrying out this thorough search, a voice in her mind—which she knew was her own—told her she’d gone mad in the hours since her father’s demise. Her precautions bordered on the ridiculous—or perhaps she had fully crossed that border and her behavior was just utterly absurd. Only a moment’s thought convinced her of the latter.
Still, she felt unquestionable relief to know she was completely alone and safe while she knelt beside the box and examined it with the aid of the lamp she’d set nearby on the floor. The box was about as long as the front of a large overstuffed chair, as wide as a dinner plate, and a little deeper than the length of her hand from her wrist to her fingertips. Sarah quickly realized she was looking at three hinges along the edge of the box and immediately turned it around so that she was seeing the front where there was a latch directly in the center—and a keyhole in the center of the latch. Sarah gasped softly and reached into the pocket of her dressing gown for the key she’d found hidden in her mother’s jewelry box. She looked at the key, and the keyhole, and the key again, surmising that they appeared to be a good match. But for some reason she felt hesitant to even open the box. Her determination to find the box suddenly felt a little foolhardy as her father’s mostly nonsensical last words came back to her. Maybe she didn’t want to know what was in the box, or maybe she just didn’t want to be responsible for it—whatever it might be. But her father was dead now, and she was his only heir. If the contents of this box were an important piece of her heritage—of what it meant to be the keeper of Castle Courtenay, as her father had put it—then she needed to just exercise some courage, not let her imagination make more of this than it was, and find out what exactly her ancestors had chosen to keep hidden in such a way.
Sarah took a deep breath and put the key into the keyhole. She took another deep breath and turned it. The lock clicked open with no resistance and the latch popped up as if magically beckoning her to just open the box. Sarah lifted the lid, feeling a mild resistance from the hinges. What she saw inside was a length of green velvet fabric, which covered the contents and prevented her from seeing anything. Sarah held her breath and gently lifted the fabric as if it were so fragile it might disintegrate in her hands. Now that she was finally able to see the treasure she had in her possession, Sarah sucked air into her lungs and had difficulty letting it out again while she wondered what on earth she—a young woman not yet twenty—was meant to do with such a thing.