Page 39 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world...” It was there in his face, the remorse and the pain. He reached out and gently cupped her cheek. For one aching moment, she thought he was about to kiss her, and she yearned to feel it.

Annabeth took a quick, jerky step back. “Yet you did.”

Sloane let out a breath and moved back, as if he, too, had been caught in that moment of closeness. His expression settled into its more recent cynical lines, and the hunger and regret were leached from his voice. “It would have been dangerous for you to know. My very existence depended on secrecy. Not just my life, but the lives of others.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“Of course I trusted you. But no matter how little you said, how well you pretended, you would have looked different, acted differently, because deep down, you would have known the truth. It could have created doubt. Suspicion.”

Annabeth felt cold, then hot. “So my heart was sacrificed to create an illusion.”

For an instant, heat flashed in his eyes, then it was gone. He gave a little shrug. “I suppose, if you want to look at it that way.”

“I don’t want to look at it any way,” Annabeth retorted. “I just want all this over with. I want my life back. So I suggest we find this document as quickly as we can.”

She whirled and strode off. She went first to what had been her father’s study, where bookshelves that were set into the wall opened when she flipped up a carved decoration and pressed the small button beneath. Inside the wall was an empty cabinet.

“Clever.” Sloane ran his finger over the nearly invisible seam that separated the rosette from the rest of the wood.

“I don’t think we’ll find anything. I went through all the hiding places when we first moved out of the house,” Annabeth said, forcing a businesslike tone.

“And what if you didn’t know where all of them were?” Sloane pointed out. “Perhaps your father kept a secret place hidden even from you.”

“It’s possible,” Annabeth said doubtfully. “I suppose we’ll have to examine everything with an eye to that.” She didn’t like the thought. It meant more time being alone here with Sloane.

They went through the rooms, Annabeth showing him her father’s various hiding spots. She didn’t reveal the space in her own bedroom that had once held the letters Sloane had sent her. Those were long gone, tossed in the fireplace during a bout of tears, but somehow even seeing where they had been seemed too intimate.

It was Sloane who discovered that if he pressed the base of the finial atop one of the staircase’s newel-posts, the knob could be twisted off. In the hollow beneath the finial was a small leather pouch. It was the only item they had found, and they smiled at each other in anticipation.

“It’s light,” Annabeth said as she pulled out the little bag. “I think maybe there’s nothing in it.” She tugged at the knotted ties that closed the pouch.

“I’ll cut it.” Sloane reached into his boot and pulled out a thin sharp knife.

“You go around everywhere armed?” she asked.

“Not until recently, after the trouble with Parker started. At least, not this well armed. It seemed a good idea to take up my old ways.” He reached for the bag.

“Stop. You are always so impatient. I almost have it undone. There.” Annabeth reached in and pulled out a small leather notebook. “This is it!” She held it out to him. “Isn’t it?”

He snatched the notebook from her fingers and opened it. He frowned. “What the—”

Annabeth hadn’t really seen what was on the pages and she moved closer, craning her neck to see over Sloane’s arm. Unconsciously, she laid a hand lightly on his back to steady herself, then realized what she had done, how close she was standing to him.

Color flooded her face, and she jumped back. “I—I’m sorry. I—um—”

“Sorry for what?” He turned his head toward her.

Obviously he hadn’t even noticed, which somehow made it all the more embarrassing. “Nothing. What does it say?”

He handed the notebook to her. It was curled from years of having been rolled up inside the post, and she had to stretch it out to read the pages. Every page was the same, each having two columns. The one on the left contained a few letters on each line and the column on the right held numbers, and at the end of each was a triangle or circle. Around the margins there were little curlicues, and here and there was a question mark or an exclamation mark.

“What is all that?” Annabeth asked.

“I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Well, I can tell you that it’s my father’s hand. He used to make those little curlicues on his drawings and notes. I don’t understand all the numbers and letters.”

“Neither do I,” Sloane answered, frowning down at the pages. “I suppose they could be a code of some kind. It hardly seems like a—”