“What’s vellum?” asks Tiffany.
“Calfskin.”
The third portrait features a guy dressed in similar fashion to the others, only he looks younger, closer to our age. Instead of looking straight ahead, he’s in profile and staring at the ground. He’s undeniably handsome, with a sharp jawline, straight nose, and windswept black hair.
He kind of reminds me of how I’ve always pictured Mr. Darcy.
“Are these sketchbooks?” asks Tiffany, holding a text open in her hands. “Or unlined journals?”
I see that Salma and Trevor are also flipping through books, and I ask, “What’s going on?”
“They’re all blank,” says Salma with a frustrated exhale. “I don’t get it.”
“Maybe they’re planning to hand these out to us tomorrow,” says Zach, picking one up. “For our assignments.”
“Then why did they tell us to bring our own notebooks?” I ask as I peruse a text with a purple cover. The leather binding is immaculate, like it’s never been touched. I leaf through the thick pages, but there isn’t a drop of ink anywhere.
“If anyone finds anything, call it out,” says Trevor as he picks up a green book.
We’re quiet for a while, the only sound in the space the turning of pages.
“Can I get some help with this?” asks Salma after what feels like hours but could have just been minutes. Tiffany bounds over before I can even set down the book I’m holding.
I’ve already gone through dozens of texts, but Trevor is still thumbing through the same green book, carefully inspecting it page by page. “Anything good in there?” I ask.
He looks up like I’ve startled him. “Just being cautious,” he says.
There’s a snap of fabric, and I turn to see that Salma and Tiffany have removed one of the tarps, revealing a leather love seat that releases a whiff of a sour and moldy odor. They plop down on the cushion, and the backrest leans back automatically.
A footrest pops up, elevating their legs, and they shriek in unison as both armrests open and metal arms shoot out, with candle holders and metal fingers.
“Whoa,” says Salma.
The three of us approach for a closer inspection, and Tiffany tells Zach, “Pass me a book.” When he hands her one, she nestles it in the metal fingers. They hold the pages up at head level for her to read.
“What is this?” asks Trevor, while Zach captures it with his camera.
Salma grins at me. “If you had this chair, you’d never leave your room again.” Then she leaps to her feet and approaches another piece of furniture, eager to keep unwrapping surprises.
This time, she pulls off the tarp on her own, uncovering what looks like a low wooden storage bench with metal latches and an oxidized lock. The whole thing looks ancient.
“What’s that?” asks Tiffany.
I hear Sal’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s only then that I register the hexagonal shape and black cross on the side.
I take a horrified step back.
“Acoffin,” I whisper.
I don’t know how long we all stand and stare. It starts to feel like we’re giving the coffin a moment of silence.
“Let’s open it.”
Salma’s voice penetrates the quiet. This is what she does when she feels vulnerable—she overcompensates by pretending everything is a joke.
“Let’snot,” I say.
“There’s a lock,” Tiffany points out.
