13 Treasures (15 page)

Tanya fell silent. In a horrible way, what Fabian was saying made sense. Plus she could think of nothing else to explain the mysterious girl. A shiver ran down her spine.

“What are we going to do?”

Fabian gritted his teeth. “We’ll have to go back into the woods. If she found us once she can find us again.”

Tanya paled. “We can’t. We’ll get into so much trouble if we get caught—you saw how angry your father was!”

“We won’t get caught,” said Fabian. “We’ll plan it all first.”

“I really don’t know about this….”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Tanya shook her head.

“I’m not going to rest until I find the truth,” said Fabian. “We’re going back into the forest the first chance we get. And this time we’ll find out what
really
happened to her.”

Moonlight streamed through the open curtains and spilled into the room, penetrating its darkness and washing it with silver. The night had grown warmer in the past couple of hours, and the window was thrown wide open in an attempt to draw any kind of breeze in, but there was none. The scent of the roses in the courtyard below was heavy and sweet, drifting up from the gardens to sit sluggishly in the room.

Tanya lay on top of the bedclothes, in thin pajamas that were turned inside out. They were sticking to her uncomfortably. She was wide awake, though this had less to do with the heat and more to do with what Fabian had told her earlier in the evening. In addition, Warwick had fixed the grandfather clock on the landing once more; for all night its mocking chimes had kept her awake while reminding her of how little sleep she was likely to get. The last set of chimes had marked two o’clock in the morning, and she knew that even if she got to sleep now it would only be about four hours before Amos woke her.

Her skin crawled at the thought of him, shuffling about on the floor above muttering to himself and goodness knew what else. It had been years since he’d had any real contact with the outside world. Horrible thoughts began to crowd her mind.

What if Amos
had
been involved in Morwenna Bloom’s disappearance? What if the old man upstairs was a murderer? And then another idea popped into her head. Maybe she and Fabian were not the only ones to have explored the servants’ staircase recently. Maybe Amos had realized Tanya was visiting and had decided to take a little wander…

All of a sudden the moonlight was not enough. Tanya fought the urge to turn on the bedside lamp, and then did it anyway, berating herself for being so babyish—but the light never came on. Cursing, and no longer bothered if anyone were to see the light under her door, she got up and crossed the room, snapping the main light switch on. Nothing.

The realization hit her that this had happened before, more than once. Power outages were all too common at the manor, and she knew from experience that it was usually hours rather than minutes before the electricity was reconnected. Her grandmother was usually well prepared, stashing a generous supply of candles in the rooms most often used, but Tanya already knew with a sinking feeling that in this room there were none. It wasn’t used often enough, and she had not seen any when she had unpacked her things and put them away.

She clenched her eyes shut and tried to think. There would be candles downstairs in the kitchen. Florence always kept a supply under the sink, along with a few spare boxes of matches. She would go down, grab a few, and then return to her room and read until she was sleepy. And she would remain in bed until she was good and ready to get up, whether her grandmother liked it or not and whether or not Amos shouted the place down. If it came to it she would say she was feeling unwell. That way she could get some rest and avoid them all: her grandmother, Warwick, and Fabian.

More able to focus now that she had a plan, Tanya located her slippers and crept out of the room. In the silence of the sleeping house every noise she made seemed monumental. Every step, every creak of the floorboards beneath her made her cringe and pause.

In the kitchen, Oberon thumped his tail in greeting and rose from his blanket by the hearth. Tanya knelt and made a fuss of him, briefly comforted. He smelled of marrow bone, and there were pieces of a chewed-up boot of Warwick’s in his basket.

She gave him an extra pat while making a mental note to dispose of the evidence, then began to search under the sink for the candles and matches. She gathered several, and after locating a brass candlestick shoved to the back of the cupboard, pushed a candle firmly into it and lit the wick. Instantly, the kitchen was lit with a golden glow. Tanya took a step toward the door, ready to creep back upstairs—but something made her pause. Frowning, she held the candle aloft.

On the countertop there were four pieces of bread, placed neatly in a square on the chopping board. Three of them had been buttered. Next to them was a tub of spread, with a knife wedged halfway in at an angle. As Tanya took another step she saw a small parcel of tinfoil, partially opened to reveal that it was full of beef left over from dinner. A ripe tomato sat on the chopping board, waiting to be sliced. Tanya placed her hand on the foil containing the meat. It was cold, like it had not been out of the fridge for long.

She took a sharp breath and scanned the kitchen. She had interrupted someone, that much was clear. And whoever it was wouldn’t have had time to go far. But who would bother hiding over something as trivial as making a sandwich?

“Who’s there?” she whispered. “Fabian?”

A dark figure sprang from the alcove where the servants’ staircase had been blocked off, and darted from the kitchen. With no time to think through what she was about to do, Tanya followed. As she moved through the kitchen into the pitch-black hall, the candle in her hand sent shadows scattering across the walls, the flame flickering wildly before going out.

In the sudden darkness she paused, trying to get her bearings. Light footsteps padded slyly away from her. A nearby door opened, then closed softly. The library. Hardly daring to breathe, Tanya relit the candle and pushed the door open. By now she knew it wasn’t Fabian, and knew she should go and wake someone. She also knew there wasn’t time.

Warily, she stepped into the library, scanning the now-empty bookshelves and the writing table near the window. The door closed behind her, and there was a scratching of claws and a small whine from outside. Oberon had followed her. She ducked down, looking beneath the table, and jumped as a single yellow eye glared back at her. Spitfire. The cat hissed, then curled itself into a ragged ginger ball. Tanya stepped back, surveying the room. It was empty and open. There was nowhere else to hide.

She set the candle down on a nearby bookshelf. Perhaps she had been mistaken. The intruder must have gone into one of the other rooms nearby. She knew she would have to go and wake her grandmother and Warwick—but what if the intruder was out there, waiting for her? She stood, contemplating her next move.

Something gleamed in the flickering candlelight. She lifted the candle once more. On the edge of the bookshelf at eye level, the tiniest smear of something pale and shiny was lodged into the complex pattern in the woodwork. It was a moment before Tanya recognized what it was. Butter.

Her fingers traced the engravings in the old, dark wood. Amidst ornately carved ivy there were several small circular panels. It was on one of these panels the butter had been smeared. Three small indents were part of a triangular shape within the pattern. Almost in a trance she lifted her hand and placed her thumb, forefinger, and middle finger into the indentations, and instinctively turned her wrist clockwise.

Soundlessly, effortlessly, the circular panel began to turn with her hand. After rotating the panel a half-turn to the right she withdrew her fingers and thumb, then replaced them so her wrist was straight and turned clockwise again. After another half-turn the panel resisted slightly before clicking into place. Several seconds passed before anything happened. Then slowly, the end partition of the bookcase began to revolve in the wall.

Tanya could hear her own blood rushing through her ears as her eyes struggled to comprehend what they were seeing. As the bookcase revolved farther it revealed a narrow gap in the wall. The other side was completely black. She lifted the candle. Already, she knew this was not the servants’ staircase. This was something else. A steep set of stone steps spiraled downward. The air was cold, damp, and moldy. She leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse down the staircase. It looked positively treacherous.

Tanya took a few steps into the passageway, nearing the staircase. Fabian had been right all along. Elvesden Manor was home to secrets that she had never imagined possible. There
were
hidden tunnels—and clearly, the intruder that had been in the house knew about them and was using them. But why?

Too late she heard the soft scrape of the partition being pulled back into place by whatever mechanism controlled it. There was a dull click of finality, and then the tunnel was sealed like a tomb… with Tanya still inside.

Horrified, she began searching desperately by the candlelight for any kind of latch or lever on the inside. There was none. Stricken, she forced her fingernails into the tiny gap of the door. It was shut tight as she knew it would be, still sturdy and impenetrable; truly built to last. She guessed then that the tunnel was only designed to get out of the house, and that there must be others for getting in. Her one candle continued to burn, her only source of light and comfort.

There was no way back. She was trapped.

She drew a breath, ready to scream for her grandmother; for Warwick, for anyone. But sense flashed a warning into her mind. The person nearest—who would hear her cries and reach her first—would be the intruder. As it was, whoever had entered the tunnel probably had no idea that they had been followed through the secret entrance. Her only chance was to try to follow at a distance and find the way out.

There was no choice but to go on. Her heart was pumping wildly, and her breath was now coming in short gasps that she fought to control. She had never been more terrified. She started down the steps, winding farther and farther beneath the house. As she did so, the temperature plummeted. Tanya could feel her skin, covered only in the thin cotton of her pajamas, prickle with gooseflesh. The candle began to shudder in her hand.

The stairwell ended and opened out. She came to a halt, and with shock and dismay counted four possible tunnels she could take. Each spiraled off in a different direction and appeared as terrifying as the next.

Through thick green mold, small areas of gray stone were visible. Then, on the ground, Tanya spotted something: a large, flat pebble, trussed and knotted with dirty string that led off into one of the tunnels. Its purpose, she realized, was to mark the way in this underground labyrinth. She was then faced with her most difficult task yet. Knowing that her candle was burning low, and that its light would alert the intruder to her approach, she knelt and took hold of the cold, damp string that was tied to the pebble and allowed it to run through her fingers, leading the way.

Bracing herself, she blew the candle out and began to move along in the pitch-black, following the only path she could in the hope it would lead her out. What was it Fabian had told her? The tunnels led out in a couple of places… somewhere in Tickey End—a pub… and the little church nearby.

Let it be the church,
she begged silently.

She walked for several long minutes, imagining in her mind’s eye the tunnel becoming narrower, like the darkness was closing in. The musty dankness caught in her throat and crawled down her airway. Her own tremulous breathing was all she could hear. The darkness was swallowing her.

And then the air changed, became thinner and fresher—and colder still. She sensed that the tunnel had opened out into something: some kind of underground room—or perhaps a way out. She fumbled for the matches, then jumped in terror as a distinctive click echoed in her ears. A strong light shone in her eyes, blinding her. Weakly, she lifted her hand to her eyes, realizing her mistake too late.

“Nice of you to join us,” a voice hissed, horribly close.

The flashlight went out and light footsteps moved away from her. Then came the sound of a match being struck. Tanya blinked repeatedly as white lights danced in front of her eyes. From what little she could see at the edges of her vision it was apparent that she was in an underground cavern of sorts.

Now lit by candlelight, the outline of a figure stood about ten feet away. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing the dazzled feeling to pass. Her vision was clearing. The figure by the wall shifted slightly, though the person’s face remained hidden in the darkness.

“Who are you?” said Tanya. Her eyes darted around. In the farthest corner was an old-fashioned bed, heaped with blankets and a meager pile of clothes. A dark-colored bag had been half-emptied on it. A tiny wooden table and chair stood next to the bed. Flickering on the table, the flame of a single candle was caught in some underground draft. The intruder stepped away from the wall toward her. As the shadows were chased away by the candlelight a face came into view.

The girl looked young, not much older than Tanya. She was tall and athletic, flat-chested and boyish in shape with a plain, unreadable expression. Even in the muted light Tanya could see the mane of red hair tumbling to her waist, wild and unkempt. It glowed through the darkness, brighter than the candles, as though it were flaming all by itself.