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“Are you hearing yourself right now?” I scowl at her. “We’re gonna die down here.”
She slaps my back. “But we’ll die doing the coolest thing ever! Now, let’s go.” She digs through her bag and takes out two flashlights before turning them both on. “Here.” She hands me one.
“Wow. Thanks.”
Skye goes first as we step down the gnarly set of steps before entering a narrow and damp tunnel that wouldn’t fly for someone claustrophobic. Which, right now, is probably me.
Skye sneezes. “Even if there’s a library down here, what are the chances that any of its books will still be in any condition to read?”
“In Grams’s research, it said the Scottish used linseed oil in their mortar and wood that kept their structures far better preserved than other civilizations at the time.” I can’t believe I know all this.
We laugh as we move along. Skye says, “Well, this tunnelisin a reasonable condition.”
“It is,” I say, noting that I’m not scared. Am I becoming my old self? When we get to a set of double wooden doors with a chain, I gasp. “You think this is it?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I approach the doors with the key Grams gave me. My hands tremble as I place it inside the old lock, twisting and turning to no avail, but I remain hopeful. Readjusting the key and continuing to turn slowly and carefully at different angles, I finally unlock it with a heart-accelerating click. My pulse races. But when I go to pull it open, it won’t budge. I mean, it has centuries’ worth of rust on it.
I look at Skye. “Now what?”
“Move over.” She reaches into her back and pulls out a small electric saw.
“Holy crap, you’re prepared.”
“This is what I was born for, Riley.”
After she saws a link away, I slip the chain away, then open the double doors, which creak the whole way. We step into the dark room, and dirty, dank air comes rushing out.
After a coughing fit, I lift my flashlight. “I think this is it!” I say, erupting into a full-body shake.
“Good work, my apprentice.” Skye’s voice is scratchy.
This ornate room has walls of books on shelves and is filled with treasures—jewels, tiaras, tea, settings, china, and so many other things that appear to have belonged to a royal family. “Jesus. This is really it.”
“This stuff has to be worth a fortune!” Skye runs in and puts a tiara on her head. “You’re rich, Riley!”
I gasp, darting over to her and taking the crown off her head. “No, Skye. Don’t. This stuff all belongs in a museum.”
With wealthy parents, I’ve lived a life without want, by definition. Except I have an ocean of want when it comes to matters of love, security, and touch. Which is why I know material things don’t bring true happiness. It’s juststuff. Except right now, my family really needs the funds, so auctioning all this would help them get back on their feet. Hell, now I need something to getmeback on my feet too. But this is ancient stuff, so if it’s placed in a museum, it becomes so much more than that. It’s visual learning. It’s an experience. It providesthatmoment—the one where you see something really old for the first time and realize it holds clues to our past, simply by its existence.
“Are you kidding me?” Skye floats away into the dark, and when I angle my flashlight on her, she has something big and red in her hand, which she swiftly puts in her pocket.
I march over. “Whatever you just took, give it back.”
“No! Finder’s keepers.”
“Skye! This is part of Scotland’s missing history.” I go to take it from her, and she smacks my arm.
I smack her arm back. “Give it.”
This kicks off a slapping war between us. Then there’s some shoving, spinning, and tumbling. When Skye grabs my ear and twists it, I squawk in pain. “Okay. Truce,” I cry out through labored breaths. When she lets go, I sweep the locks of hair off my face and a few loose ones fall. “Can we be civilized and finish the important work we’re doing here before we kick off negotiations on the jewels?”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I say, but note that Skye still has a red jewel in her pocket that she needs to return.
We shuffle through the books, and I find a handwritten one titled, “After the massacre of 1421.” When I flip it open, it’s thediary of Isobel Galloway.Galloway:as in Lord Galloway! I take it off the shelf, yelling, “This is it!”
