And then my phone.
It dings with a message from Twig.
Deemed non-urgent. Stuck in waiting room. Guy with chest pain got right in. I should have exaggerated. Arm hurts like a nutcracker. How’s the parade?
I type back a quick, slightly deceptive reply, my guilt quadrupling. But what can I say in a text? This is a story I have to tell him in person. I add some extra exclamation points, two heart emojis, and hit send.
“This is supposed to be the spot,” Jude says, glancing at his phone. He stands directly in front of an elevated stone base, cracked and covered with ivy.
St. Fortuna’s altar.
We search the area, nudging loose stones with our shoes—looking for what, I’m not even sure. Jude puts the compass back together, but like always, it twitches erratically.
I set my hands on my hips.
The scrap of paper had coordinates. But it also had a clue. “Beneath the highest point,” I mutter, more to myself than Jude.
The altar could be the highest point spiritually. But physically? That would’ve been the steeple. Probably the tallest thing in all of Foggy Hollow pre-fire. I turn in a slow circle until I spot it—a knee-high ring of sunken stone at the far corner, half-buried.
“St. Fortuna’s bell tower,” I say. “That has to be it.”
We hurry forward, and without a word, we start clearing the area. We sweep aside dead leaves and brittle branches. We pull back briars and curtains of ivy, yanking at the clinging vines. We haul away chunks of stone, some so large we have to lift them together. At some point, I remove my coat. We don’t stop until we’re both dirt-smeared and breathless and all that’s left is bare earth.
Beneath the highest point.
Jude and I share a fevered glance. Then we drop to our knees and dig.
The soil is damp. Dirt wedges beneath my fingernails as we tear through roots, our urgency growing, like we’re digging toward something crucial. Finally, my knuckles scrape against a smooth, solid surface.
I pause for a moment, my breath catching. Then I dig harder, scooping away the earth until we’ve uncovered a flat stone slab too symmetrical to be an accident.
“It looks like a door,” Jude says.
My phone dings in the pocket of my coat.
I’m sure it’s from Twig.
Maybe he finally got a room. Or he had his x-ray. I picture him in a sterile hospital, annoyed about missing the parade—while I’m here, in this once sacred space, unearthing century-old clues.
Jude brushes away the last of the dirt, exposing seams and edges. Along one of them, a shallowgroove has been carved into the stone. Just big enough for a person to slide their fingers beneath.
So I slide mine in and pull with all my might.
The door doesn’t budge.
Jude tries next. The tendons in his neck strain. His face goes red. The slab shifts—a centimeter, then an inch. He’s lifting it, ever so slightly.
Quickly, I grab a nearby rock and wedge it underneath, holding the stone up so we don’t lose progress. We reposition ourselves, side by side on our knees, and slide our hands beneath the propped corner. Together, we try to lift, but we’re too close to the ground to get any leverage.
I find a stick in the rubble and try using it as a lever.
It snaps in half.
Jude spots a partially burned beam a few feet away. It’s charred on the outside, but when he knocks it against a rock, it holds. He jams the beam into the narrow gap, and slowly, he shifts the slab again, just enough to get my arms completely under it. My back aches as we give one final heave and push the door aside.
“Great Scott,” I whisper.
A narrow stone stairwell descends into darkness.
