Isabella lifted it, its weight surprising in her hand.
The box was rectangular, its brass surface tarnished in places. She turned it this way and that, examining the etchings carved into its surface. They were sharp and intricate, winding along the edges and curling around the keyhole at the front like coiling serpents. At each corner, a scarab was engraved, wings splayed open, tiny eyes almost lifelike. A central motif dominated the lid, a sun disk flanked by two uraei—cobras rising tall and regal with their hoods flared. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the details impossibly fine.
Her breath hitched. The scarabs. The serpents. So familiar.
Closer now, she saw a maker’s mark, no wider than a thumbnail: a tiny bee in a cartouche, T and S stamped beneath. She knew that mark. It hid on the escutcheon of Papa’s trunk. Thorn and Sons, Ludgate Hill. She remembered filings in the carpet when Papa had the lock replaced, and the locksmith saying he would cut the wards to match the key.
Her free hand rose to her collarbone, her fingertips grazing the hidden key resting beneath her dress. Slowly, she drew the chain over her head, letting Papa’s key dangle before her eyes.
The bow was circular, decorated with an engraved Eye of Horus at its center, the lines impossibly delicate. The shaft was etched with tiny spirals that echoed the same sinuous shapes carved into the brass of the box.
The similarities were unmistakable.
Papa’s key appeared to match this box in Rhys Caradoc’s library. It was possible enough; warded locks were often cut to common patterns. Still, the coincidence made her pulse count out a warning.
Almost did she slip the key into the waiting lock, almost did she turn it and let whatever secrets lay hidden within spill free.
But the creak of a floorboard in the corridor startled her, followed by the shuffle of steps as though someone lingered just beyond the door. Her breath caught, the box balanced in her hand. In that suspended instant, the metal warmed against her skin, eager, waiting.
Then, with a prudence Pandora had lacked, she carefully set the box back onto the desk. The metal kissed the wood with a soft, decisive thud.
The key, she tucked back beneath her dress, where it lay heavy and cold against her skin.
She turned instead to the drawers. Their handles were tarnished brass, shaped like curling ivy leaves. She pulled at the first drawer, its resistance giving way with a reluctant scrape.
Inside, she found what one might expect in a desk: an assortment of neatly arranged quills, ink pots with dried rings staining their bases, brittle sheets of unused parchment. The smell of ink and aged wood rose to meet her, familiar and soothing. There was nothing unusual here, nothing secretive.
Closing the drawer, she then moved to the next, driven not merely by curiosity, but by a vivid certainty that there was something to find. Inside the drawer was a collection of ledgers bound in cracked leather, the edges stained with use, the spines marked with faded lettering. Accounts. Inventories.
The third drawer was slightly off kilter in its frame, the handle loose, splintered at the edge as though it had been wrenched open in haste at some point. The drawer slid free with a reluctant groan, protesting her intrusion. Inside was a stack of correspondence in an untidy pile.
The topmost letter caught her attention. Her father’s handwriting slanted across the page. She froze.
Reaching into the drawer, she fanned the pile and saw that there were several letters written in Papa’s distinctive hand. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled and rose.
The letters she had discovered in Papa’s desk had been letters from Rhys Caradoc. These must be Papa’s replies.
She unfolded the first.
* * *
Sir,
I must once again decline your invitation and your offer. Whatever it is you believe I possess, or whatever qualities you perceive in my daughter, I assure you they are of no value to you.
My daughter is a good girl. She is innocent, kind, and with no knowledge of the darkness that shadows this world. Her delicate health will not permit a move, nor would I wish her burdened by further strain. I must therefore implore you to cease your inquiries and to refrain from contacting us again.
I trust this will be the end of the matter.
Yours faithfully,
Thomas Barrett
* * *
The ink had smudged near the end, and Isabella could almost see her father’s hand trembling as he’d signed his name. The hint of a thumbprint ghosted the margin. Her throat tightened. Whatever her father had been protecting her from, it had been enough to rattle him, enough to make him refuse Rhys Caradoc, a man who clearly did not accept refusal lightly.
And yet, in this at least, it seemed Mr. Caradoc had not lied. Papa had claimed her health would not allow him to accept the position.
