Jude uses the flashlight on his phone, and together, we climb down the stairs. The walls are damp to the touch and lined with sconces—half-melted candles still intact in their holders. The air smells of wet earth and decay and the temperaturedrops with every step. By the time we reach the flagstone landing, it’s cold enough to make me wish I’d grabbed my coat.
We’ve reached a small antechamber. A cast-iron door looms before us, set into an arched frame inscribed with Latin. Jude shines his light across the carved words.
“Quod clausum est,” he reads aloud, tilting his head. “Manere clausum debet.”
“Did you learn Latin at boarding school?”
He eyes the inscription. “That which is closed … must remain closed.”
“That’s creepy,” I mutter.
He moves his flashlight down the length of the door. The beam glides over a keyhole and comes to an abrupt stop.
I move my hand to my clavicle, over the key I’ve taken to wearing like a necklace. Just like my mother used to. I slide the chain from around my neck. I fit the key into the hole, just like I’ve done a hundred times before, in every keyhole we could find.
Only this time … the lock clicks.
40
A CRYPT
The room is long and rectangular with a coffin in the center.
“A crypt,” I whisper.
Only there’s no skeleton with a bowtie.
Jude shines his flashlight past the coffin, where a large stone table spans the length of the far wall.
It isn’t empty.
We hurry toward it.
A lantern with soot-streaked glass sits beside an inkwell crusted with dried ink. A feather quill lays on a small piece of cloth next to a rolled up scroll secured with a cord. There’s a pile of charcoal sketches, a leather-bound Bible so dry and cracked it looks like old bark, and a hand-drawn map that has curled in on itself.
I smooth it straight and take in the familiar geography—the Blackwillow River, themountains, the forest. Along with historic landmarks, like assembly hall and St. Fortuna’s. A bold X marks a spot in what must have once been red ink but has since faded to rusty brown.
“This is in the cemetery,” I say, pointing at the X.
Jude shines his light on the annotated words at the bottom. “Where the blood must fall,” he reads.
“The compass will lead the way,” I finish.
He picks up the charcoal sketches. The first one is of Molly. There’s no symbol drawn in the corner. But there is an apology written in Ezra’s hand.
I’m sorry I loved you. I’m sorry it killed you.
I want to snatch the sketch from Jude and tear it into pieces. The last thing he needs is more reason to shut me out. Thankfully, he’s moving along, shuffling to the next, and the girl isn’t Molly. The girl looks more like me. As though drawn from the vague recollection of a dream. Each successive sketch bears more of my likeness. In the final one, I’m wearing the locket.
With a pounding heart, I pick up the scroll. My hands tremble as I untie the leather cord and begin unrolling the vellum parchment. Ornamental script appears, written in more Latin, andthere are two symbols at the top—the one that marked my mother, and another just as familiar.
“That’s your family crest,” I say.
Jude runs his thumb over it. The shield is missing, and the sun doesn’t have any sunbursts. But it’s the same basic structure.
I finish unrolling the scroll.
A small sheaf of paper slips out, filled with cramped handwriting.
