The creak of the floorboard from the linen closet below was a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the attic. My blood turned to ice. Trapped. The vellum, with its unbroken rose seal, lay exposed in the silver box, its secrets still tantalizingly out of reach. My flashlight beam, previously a beacon of discovery, now felt like a spotlight, pinning me to the scene of my clandestine investigation. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. Had Olivia's taunt been a carefully laid snare, leading me directly into their waiting hands? Or was it Caroline, her suspicions finally hardening into certainty?
My first instinct was to douse the light, to plunge myself back into the anonymous darkness. But the footsteps, soft and stealthy, were already at the base of the rickety stepladder. There was no time to hide, no time to properly secure the box or the locket. Thinking fast, I snapped the silver box shut – the mechanism thankfully silent – and shoved it, along with the A.G. locket, deep into the cavernous pocket of the oversized, dark work jacket I'd donned for this dusty expedition. The vellum remained inside the box, its contents still a mystery. My only hope was that whoever was coming wouldn't demand a search.
"Hello?" A voice from below, hesitant, slightly muffled. Not Olivia's sharp, calculating tones, nor Caroline's icy precision. It was… Davies.
Relief warred with a new surge of adrenaline. Davies? Why was he here, in the dead of night, near the attic? His presence was unexpected, an anomaly. Was he a silent guardian, a neutral observer, or an agent of my stepmother?
"Mr. Davies?" I called down, my voice deliberately shaky, laced with a feigned fear that wasn't entirely manufactured. "Is that you? I… I heard a noise. I thought perhaps it was… vermin." It was a weak excuse, but the best I could manage.
A pause, then, "Miss Eleanor? What in heaven's name are you doing up there at this hour?" His tone was one of genuine surprise, perhaps even concern, but beneath it, I detected the faintest undercurrent of something else – suspicion? Or was it a carefully masked understanding?
"I… I couldn't sleep," I improvised, my mind racing. "I remembered Grandmother Annelise used to store some old photograph albums up here. I just… I felt a sudden urge to see her face, to connect with her memory. It was a foolish whim, I know, especially at this hour." I tried to inject a note of wistful, slightly embarrassed sentimentality into my voice.
The stepladder groaned as he began to ascend. I quickly switched off my powerful flashlight and fumbled for the dim, almost useless emergency light on my phone, casting long, eerie shadows. When Davies' head appeared through the access panel, his usually impassive face was etched with a mixture of surprise and disapproval. His gaze swept the dusty, cluttered space, lingering for a fraction of a second on the disturbed crates of silver before settling on me, dishevelled and coated in grime.
"Miss Eleanor," he said, his voice firm but not unkind, "this is hardly a suitable place for a young lady, particularly at this time of night. And it's certainly not safe. These floorboards are ancient."
"You're right, of course, Davies," I conceded, offering a sheepish smile. "It was an impulsive thought. I didn't find the albums anyway. Just… a lot of dust." I made a show of brushing myself off. The weight of the silver box in my pocket felt like a lead ingot.
His eyes, I noticed, didn't miss the slight bulge. But he said nothing about it. "Allow me to assist you down, Miss. And perhaps a glass of warm milk might aid your sleep." His professionalism was a fortress.
As he helped me navigate the treacherous descent, I couldn't shake the feeling that his appearance had been too coincidental. Had he been patrolling the house? Or had someone – Olivia, Caroline – sent him to check on my whereabouts after noticing my absence from my room? The questions swirled, unanswered. Davies escorted me back to my wing, his silence as unnerving as any interrogation. He saw me to my door, offered a curt nod, and retreated into the shadows of the corridor, leaving me with a racing heart and the precious, unopened vellum.
Once the door was securely locked, I pulled out the silver box. My hands trembled as I carefully separated its halves again. The vellum lay there, a fragile, yellowed promise. The rose seal, tiny and perfect, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Breaking it felt like a sacrilege, a violation of a trust that spanned generations. But the need to know, the burning urgency of my quest, overrode my hesitation.
With the tip of a silver letter opener taken from my desk, I carefully, painstakingly, broke the seal. The wax crumbled, releasing a faint, almost imperceptible scent of dried roses and old parchment. I unfolded the vellum with reverent care.
The script was not my grandmother's familiar, flowing hand. It was tighter, more precise, unmistakably masculine – Arthur Grimshaw's, I presumed. It was not a will, nor a legal document in the traditional sense. It was a letter, a statement, addressed not to an individual, but seemingly to posterity, or to whoever might one day possess the ingenuity to find it.
To Whom It May Concern, Upon the Unsealing of This Trust, it began.
Let it be known that I, Arthur Grimshaw, solicitor and confidant to Lady Annelise Vance, do make this declaration under duress of conscience and in fulfillment of a solemn promise made to her in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and [a date nearly two decades prior to her actual passing]. Lady Annelise, possessed of a keen mind and a discerning heart, harbored grave concerns regarding the true and rightful disposition of certain Vance assets, distinct from the main entailed estate, and more importantly, regarding the guardianship and future well-being of her direct bloodline, should her own life be curtailed or her final wishes subverted by those with avaricious intent.
My breath caught. Direct bloodline. Guardianship. This was far more than just about money or property.
The letter continued, detailing my grandmother's fears – fears of manipulation, of her own son, my father, being unduly influenced by "ambitious and unscrupulous parties" (a thinly veiled reference to Caroline, even then, or perhaps someone before her?). It spoke of her desire to establish a separate, protected trust, a "Rose Guard Fund," as she'd poetically termed it, for the benefit of her "true heir," to be administered by Grimshaw himself, or his appointed successor, until such time as this heir came of age or demonstrated the wisdom to manage it.
And then, the most damning passage, the one that made the room spin:
Lady Annelise, in her wisdom, foresaw the possibility of her primary will being contested or altered. This declaration, and the locket and box which serve as its testament, are intended to give voice to her most deeply held, and most fiercely protected, desire: that the true legacy of her personal fortune, and the moral stewardship of the Vance name, should pass not necessarily by primogeniture alone, but to the descendant who embodies her spirit of integrity and resilience. She spoke often of a "hidden bloom," a child who, though perhaps overlooked or undervalued, possessed the true Vance strength.
A hidden bloom. Me? Had she foreseen my exile, my return? Or was this a more general provision, a safeguard against any potential usurper?
The letter didn't explicitly name me, Eleanor, as the "true heir" or the "hidden bloom." It couldn't have; I was a child when it was written. But it laid out a clear intent, a moral directive that flew in the face of the will Caroline and my father had executed, the will that had so conveniently benefited Olivia and, by extension, Caroline herself. This vellum wasn't a legally binding codicil, not in the conventional sense. It was a moral bombshell, a testament to my grandmother's true wishes, a powerful weapon if wielded correctly.
The final lines were a chilling instruction: Should this document come to light, and should the circumstances of Lady Annelise's passing or the subsequent administration of her estate appear suspect, it is the sworn duty of the finder to seek out Alistair Finch, my former partner, or, failing that, my loyal secretary, Miss Penelope Featherworth. They alone hold further keys to unraveling the full extent of this trust and the measures put in place for its protection. Trust sparingly. Observe keenly. The Vance garden has always hidden thorns amongst its roses.
The vellum trembled in my hand. My grandmother hadn't just been worried; she had been actively plotting to protect her true legacy, and perhaps, to protect me, or someone like me. The Rose Guard Fund. Where was it now? Had it ever been activated? Or had Caroline and her allies managed to suppress its existence entirely?
Alistair Finch in Florida. Penelope Featherworth in Queens, who had already given me the locket. Penny knew more. She had to know more. She hadn't just given me a key; she had pointed me towards the very document it was meant to reveal, knowing, perhaps, that I would find the silver box. Her cryptic words, her careful omissions – it was all part of a larger, carefully guarded plan.
But Olivia. Her knowledge, or suspicion, of the "A.G." silver box was the immediate, pressing threat. If she and Caroline discovered I possessed this vellum, my already precarious position would become untenable. They wouldn't hesitate to silence me, permanently this time.
Sleep was impossible. My mind, fueled by adrenaline and the earth-shattering revelations of the vellum, worked feverishly. I needed to contact Penny again, discreetly. I needed to understand the full scope of the Rose Guard Fund. And I needed to find a way to use this information without tipping my hand too early. The Atherton auction was tonight. It was a public stage, a place where reputations were made and broken with a whispered word or a well-aimed glance. Could I use it to my advantage? To send a subtle signal, to rattle Olivia's carefully constructed composure, to make her wonder just how much I truly knew? It was a calculated risk, but in this game of shadows and deceit, sometimes the boldest moves were the only ones that mattered. The question was, what kind of signal would be subtle enough to unnerve, yet not so overt as to expose my hand entirely? And how could I ensure my own safety if Olivia and Caroline decided I knew too much?