Chapter 23
23 Chapter 23 A Shadow In The
Study
Faye’s POV
I rose from the mattress, carefully drawing back the covers and smoothing them to one side. My fingers found the hem of my nightgown, peeling away the soft fabric to expose the specialized garment beneath. The material was sleek and form-fitting, designed for movement and concealment. Every inch was midnight black. Hardy had selected this outfit himself,
explaining how the dark fabric would let me disappear into the night’s embrace. Tonight, that advantage would be crucial.
Once I had completely changed, I gathered my discarded nightclothes and positioned them strategically across the bed. I stuffed the sleeves and torso with spare linens and cushions, carefully shaping them to mimic a resting figure. The blanket Eileen had brought earlier completed the deception. From across the room, anyone would assume I remained peacefully asleep, exactly where they expected me to be.
I moved toward the window, my hands working swiftly to release the metal clasp. The frame opened with minimal resistance, creating just enough space for my body to slip through. The evening breeze struck my exposed skin like ice. My pulse hammered against my
ribs.
Beyond the glass lay a thin stone platform, part of the architectural detail that bordered the manor’s exterior. It was never intended for foot traffic, especially not at this elevation, certainly not without proper footwear, and absolutely not when moisture from earlier rainfall made every surface treacherous.
Yet it offered my only path to the distant section of the building without alerting the household. The ground lay two floors below, nothing but unforgiving stone waiting to break anyone foolish enough to fall. I had no intention of testing that outcome.
With deliberate care, I placed one foot onto the narrow ledge, maintaining contact with the mansion’s outer wall for stability. The stone felt rough and irregular beneath my soles, barely providing adequate width for safe passage, but sufficient for progress. I
began my sideways journey, staying pressed against the vertical surface. I refused to glance downward. I couldn’t risk the distraction.
The ledge bent at the building’s corner, forcing me to flatten my spine against the cold stone as I navigated the turn, holding my breath throughout the maneuver.
From this vantage point, I could observe the central courtyard where guards were barking commands, their attention consumed by the developing crisis. The Raven Deon forces had arrived precisely as Hardy predicted. Orange flames danced in the darkness beyond the walls. Distant cries of alarm carried on the wind. The disorder was escalating, expanding my opportunity window.
Several more cautious steps brought me to the window of my father’s private office. I lowered myself into a crouch, gripping the frame’s edge. The lock was engaged. Naturally.
I retrieved a slim metal instrument from the hidden compartment Hardy had incorporated into the garment’s design. The lockpick felt familiar in my fingers from our earlier practice sessions, though
those had involved nothing more challenging than furniture drawers. My hands quivered slightly as I inserted the tool into the mechanism. The subtle clicks were masked by the commotion outside, but I could sense each tumbler falling into place.
First one… then another…
Finally, the gentlest shift indicated success.
The barrier yielded.
I created just enough opening to squeeze inside, then sealed the window behind me.
I had penetrated the inner sanctum.
Now came the real challenge: locating the map.
The chamber existed in near-complete darkness save for the weak radiance emanating from the fireplace’s dying embers. I remained low, straining to detect any signs of movement. Nothing stirred.
I advanced deeper into the space, each step calculated to avoid making noise. The hearth contained only glowing coals, providing minimal heat to the study. Hardy had briefed me about the maintenance
schedule, explaining that servants would arrive hourly to replenish the fuel. This knowledge gave me a rough timeline but little comfort. Discovery would mean certain doom, with no plausible explanation for my
presence.
My vision gradually adapted to the faint illumination as I commenced my investigation. Hardy had emphasized that the map wouldn’t appear as a traditional chart. It would be concealed among everyday objects,
positioned where it seemed natural yet remained unnoticed. “Remember the principle,” he had instructed. “Your father’s paranoia makes him distrust obvious hiding places. He conceals important items in locations where no one would think to search p>
I approached the wall-mounted shelving behind the work area. From the desk chair, these volumes would be completely out of view. That positioning alone made me question their relevance, but thoroughness was essential.
My fingertips traced across the book spines. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn ~net
Ancient Werewolf Genealogies.
Treaties Between the Great Clans: Wolf and Vampire Accords.
Arkadia: Birth of the Eastern Kingdoms.
Each title appeared significant. Each volume was covered in undisturbed dust. The arrangement was too perfect, too deliberately organized.
Nothing suggested recent handling or hidden compartments.
I scowled with frustration.
This didn’t match his character.
Despite everything, despite my growing suspicions about our true relationship, I understood this man’s nature. His behavioral patterns. His consuming mistrust.
This was someone who nearly executed his second-in-command for an improper greeting. Suspicion and obsession defined him. Any hidden treasure wouldn’t be stored beyond his constant supervision.
It would remain within his direct line of sight at all
01:41
times.
I pivoted away from the books toward the opposite wall where the fireplace dominated the space. Above the mantel hung the notorious artwork depicting a crimson stallion against pristine white canvas. Local mythology claimed the paint contained actual blood from our ancestors’ defeated enemies. I had always dismissed such tales as childhood folklore designed to
instill fear.
Nevertheless, the image disturbed me. The horse appeared to be charging directly toward whoever occupied the desk.
Was this intentional? A threat? Perhaps a coded message?
I examined the frame closely. No hinges existed. No evidence of movement or manipulation. My attention dropped to the mantel shelf. Dust coated every surface, completely undisturbed.
If the map wasn’t hidden there…
My gaze shifted lower to the massive desk itself.
The furniture was substantial and imposing, its surface crowded with document stacks, rolled charts,
leather-bound journals, and a single geometric paperweight positioned near the center. Everything appeared mundane until closer inspection revealed
the truth.
The paperweight was pyramid-shaped with a polished surface that caught the firelight. But in that dim glow, I detected something extraordinary. Carved into the material, nearly invisible unless viewed from the correct angle, were intricate markings. Lines forming patterns. Some kind of coded design.
My chest constricted with excitement. This had to be the target.
I stepped closer, extending my hand toward the object.
The weight surprised me as I lifted it, feeling substantially heavier than its size suggested. I rotated it carefully, exploring the base with my fingertips. There, along the bottom edge, I discovered a hairline crack. Almost completely hidden.
01:41
Before I could attempt to open it, disaster struck.
The oppressive quiet shattered with the softest whisper of movement. A barely perceptible shuffle that nonetheless rang like an alarm in the silence.
Heavy footsteps followed, measured and purposeful, approaching from the corridor beyond.
My breathing stopped.
My heart froze mid-beat.
Someone was approaching.
I scanned the room desperately, eyes wide with panic. The window escape route was impossible now. The
bookshelves offered no concealment without
guaranteed detection.
The door handle began to turn.
No… this was happening too quickly.
I threw myself toward the desk’s far side, dropping behind its bulk just as the entrance creaked open.
Morh Lucia
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.