Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Nico doesn’t communicate with me as he illuminates the old school lock on the door, which I open after a bit of fumbling with the rust. The passage hasn’t been used in a while, but that is for the better, as we won’t stumble upon anyone else once we’re inside.
“Where will this lead us?” Nico asks, which in itself tells me he trusted me enough to follow me here without question.
“The wine cellar,” I tell him as we lock the entrance with a rusty latch and face the narrow corridor leading far beyond the reach of our flashlight. The air here is stale, smelling of damp and wood, but we came here on a mission, and I would crawl over rat carcasses in order to ensure my safety. Though when we actually do stumble upon some rodents that ended their lives in the dark, I feel way less certain about this whole plan. It’s as if I’m seeing my future in their dried-out remains, but when I stall, Nico’s presence motivates me to go on. He’s so tall he needs to slouch and bow his head at all times, which distracts me enough to stop worrying that the old beams reinforcing the vaulted ceiling might collapse and bury us here forever.
We don’t exchange a single sentence during the long, stressful walk, but as we reach an iron door that’s partially open, relief washes over me as if the whole mission has already been accomplished.
I feel much better standing beneath a ceiling that appears structurally sound for a change, and that fact reassures me so much I almost leave the secret passage without obscuring my face. But Nico is ever-vigilant and pulls on my hand. I’m flustered by his touch and put on the small wooden mask I purchased at the mall. Shaped to imitate a young deer’s head, it has small antlers extending to my forehead and a muzzle, which covers my nose yet leaves the mouth bare.
“We need to make sure he doesn’t get to his office. It doubles as a panic room and he has an alarm button in there,” I say to fill the silence, even though we’ve already talked about it.
“Anything else com to mind? Something you might have forgotten?” Nico asks and frowns because we’ve hit a dead end.
Or at least it seems that way, because it’s actually a hidden door that will take us from the corridor and into the wine cellar. I can only hope no member of staff is there now.
I’m reminded that we are here on our own, which makes my face flush with intense heat. At least Nico won’t notice me blushing behind the mask.
I speak, as if sneaking into a house to assassinate someone was my usual Tuesday. “In the panic room, he has an additional hiding space behind the bookshelf. It opens when someone pulls on the brass statue of an archer.”
My hand finds the button opening the passage, and the wall ahead pops back, revealing itself to be a door.
“Follow me,” I tell him and enter the cool dark interior illuminated by the light shining in the nearby corridor.
“Just don’t do anything rash,” Nico says, and a shiver goes up my spine when he strokes the small of my back. “Let me handle things, and if it gets too heated, don’t wait up, run.”
His touch sends wisps of warmth all over me, but when he takes his hand away, I head toward the insistent noise and heat of the kitchen. With chefs, their helpers, and waiting staff all focused on their duties, nobody pays attention to masked guests who make their way past grills, pots, and huge platters of canapés. Everything smells delicious, but my stomach is tight from the stress of what I’m about to do, and I long to find Carl already.
It’s a Christmas party, with plenty of masked guests, so we might be able to get to him without being noticed, but the moment we step among the guests, fear crawls up my throat and tightens around it like a collar with spikes on the inside.
Fine velvets, brocade, and furs surround us from all sides, and I feel underdressed in my off-the-rack suit, but the lights are dimmed to create an intimate atmosphere, so I might just avoid being identified as an impostor. A musical quartet plays festive music, providing the background for easy conversation and wine drinking, but I storm right past the artists, intent on finding my brother. I don’t want to be here any longer than strictly necessary.
As I lead Nico into a hallway I used to reimagine as a race track, back when my parents were still around, a faint modern rhythm worms its way into my ear. I head toward a place originally conceptualized as the smoking room, where gentlemen retire after dinner and enjoy conversation uninhibited by the necessity of censoring themselves for the sake of female company. The double doors are partially open, and rays of green and red light coming from inside fall on my Grandmom’s portrait hung right across from the room.