Page 61 of The Lost Guardian

Santiago wanted to protest further, but he knew that she was right. He inelegantly swung his leg over the white rope, stumbling as his feet transitioned from wood to dirt-covered loose gravel. Before he could attract attention, he ducked inside the stone prison.

The noise from the outside seemed to fade away behind its walls. Despite the danger mere feet away, Santiago couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of peace and vast satisfaction within him.

He stood inside of history. A sliver of memory preserved through time.

Atahualpa had once been in the very spot Santiago now stood, divided only by the centuries. It was part of what made him love history so very much.

The Ransom Room was a simple space, little more than rock and dust, but in his mind’s eye, Santiago could see the captured emperor inside. A short, elegantly dressed Incan man sitting at a wooden table, learning to play chess with one of his captors. Santiago blinked, and the image dissipated.

“Hurry!” he heard Ali urge from outside.

Santiago snapped himself out of his reverie and focused.

Quickly, he scanned the interior of the Ransom Room. On the far wall was a painted red line and a plaque that explained the ransom legend. On the left side of that same wall were several small, trapezoidal notches in the stone, each like a tiny window but with no exit or access to the outside.

Windows that had never felt the warmth of the sun.

“Beneath a window that never saw light begins the story of the broken chain,” he said, reciting the riddle they had deciphered in José’s office.

“Qué?” José asked, coming to stand beside him.

“I think that’s it.” Santiago bounced on his heels as he motioned wildly toward the “windows.” “The clue has to be around there somewhere—help me look.”

Together they searched the surrounding area, dashing from one recess to another, lifting onto their toes to look down at their ledges.

Nothing.

Forcing himself to slow down, Santiago traced his fingers above every crease and crevice. He hovered his hand in the air just above the stone, reluctant to touch anything directly.

He still found nothing.

Maybe I was wrong about the windows? he thought, his momentary calm crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide.

“Anything?” José asked him.

“Not yet.”

Avoiding the northern opening of the room, which had a direct view to the entrance of the museum, Santiago quickly lapped the small space, trying to find anything that resembled a clue. Coming up empty, he ducked back to the window corner. He heard the children’s voices grow louder. They were running out of time.

“Hello, young people!” he heard Ali call out loudly in Spanish as the sounds of their little footfalls approached. “May I ask what school you are all from?”

There was a mumbled answer, and Ali clapped her hands.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “No, no, please stay right where you are. I am a tour guide sent by the municipality to tell you a little bit about the history of this room.”

“We did not hire a tour guide,” Santiago heard the confused voice of an adult say.

“I am here on behalf of the city,” Ali lied. “We value our students and want them to be well-educated in their history and culture.”

Then her voice rose.

“I’m sorry, sirs, you will have to wait in the front room; this is a private tour for the children.”

A chill crept down Santiago’s spine, and he exchanged a panicked look with the professor. She had to be speaking to Mario and Leo. They were there, and there was no way they wouldn’t recognize her. Santiago only hoped that, as terrible as the men were, even they would hesitate to pull guns on a group of schoolchildren.

“Please return to the front room. You may enter after the children leave,” Ali continued, her voice hard. There was a tense pause before he heard her quiet sigh of relief.

“Well, since we have company, we should probably make this as quick as possible, right?” she called out, louder than necessary. Santiago understood that her words were not meant for the class but for them.