He points at me and grins. “Exactly. As above, so below. The cottage comes out of the ground on one side, and the pond was dug into it on the other.”
“What happened for them to fill it in?”
Ben falters a step. Stopping in the middle of the corridor with his back to me. “It’s not really common knowledge.”
“You don’t have to say. I’m just being nosy.”
He turns around and rolls his lips as he watches me. “It’s probably better you hear it from me than ask Sylvie or Dax,” Ben reasons to himself, before asking, “You’ve heard of Sylvie’s mother, Beatrice?”
“Yeah?”
“She drowned there.”
“What? In the maze pond? That’s…how?”
Ben shoves his hands in his pockets, takes a breath, and lets the word out on a hiss of air. “Suicide. Which is why it’s best not to go around asking about it.”
Don’t ask. Don’t pry. If Ben’s warning me, it’s advice worth heeding.
“Understood.” The questions come regardless though. Why would she do that? Was she ill? Depressed? She must have felt such desperation. Ben clears his throat as if sensing my thoughts.
“This room is widely accepted to have been Ephraim’s office,” he says, continuing the tour. He swings open the ornate double doors to reveal a dark room. Despite the three floor-to-ceiling windows, the place is shrouded in dust and red velvet. Bookshelves bracket the doorway. Windows overlook the lawn on the left. There’s a traditional captain’s desk and chair on the right. On the wall opposite looms a majestic stone fireplace guarded by a gilt-framed portrait of a severe man. His expression is unyielding, eyesglaring into the heart of anyone venturing through the door.
“Meet Ephraim,” Ben introduces, waving his hand before him. I notice him duck his head in respect to the portrait before he tours the room, eyes falling over everything, and then sits on the leather sofa by the windows.
I watch Ben keenly. The spots where his eyes drag are clues to the purpose of our visit, but I can’t stop myself from staring at the old man in the portrait. There is something familiar in his ice-blue gaze that unnerves me. Something in his thin nose and sharp brow tells me I know him somehow.
“How many?” I ask Ben.
“Hmm?”
“Puzzles. How many are in here?”
“I honestly can’t tell you. I’ve found five, solved only two, but chances are there are way more than even I’ve noticed.” His normal reservation is nowhere to be found. Ben is at home here in the compound. It lights him up. Like an archaeologist on the hunt for treasure, he is alive, and alert, and excited.
“Are you testing me?”
“Mostly, I’m trying not to influence you. I’m hoping you might find something I haven’t.”
I walk the room, lingering in spots that drew Ben’s attention; the third shelf left of the door, the desk, the fireplace, the middle window, and the rug. I start with the shelf, checking the depth of the anterior wall, measuring the depth of the doorway, and comparing it to the shelving using my arm. There doesn’t seem to be any hidden space, so this isn’t a secret tunnel puzzle. Which means there is something of interest on the shelf. There are six books and a box. The books are unremarkable and pull out of the shelf without issue, so it’s the box. A cube with no apparent opening or use.
“Puzzle,” I state, though I’m not sure how to open it.
“Yes.”
I turn and twist it in my hand. It’s smooth. No markings,doesn’t twist or pressure release. Ben watches me until I look up at him. “Have you opened it?”
“Yes.”
“Not going to lie. I want to ask how you did it.” I shake it next to my ear. Theres a soft thump but the box doesn’t shift or open.
“But part of you wants to figure it out?”
“God, yes.”
Ben chuckles. “Take it with you. It’s worth it. You can bring it back here when you’ve solved it.”
“You sure?”
