Olivia's sharp, insistent knock was a jarring intrusion, a hammer blow against the fragile secrecy of my discovery. "Eleanor? Open up! It's urgent!" Her voice, usually a carefully modulated purr, now held a raw, unfamiliar edge of panic. My fingers fumbled, hastily trying to slide the minuscule parchment back into the signet ring's hidden compartment. It was too delicate, too small. There wasn't time. With a surge of desperate adrenaline, I snapped the compartment shut on the empty ring, palming the tiny, rolled sliver of vellum. My other hand swept Finch's journal under the edge of the bedspread just as Olivia rattled the doorknob impatiently.
"Eleanor, for heaven's sake, are you deaf?" she hissed through the door.
"Coming, Olivia, just a moment!" I called out, my voice deliberately sleepy, hoping to buy myself precious seconds. My eyes darted around the room. Where to hide the parchment? It was too small, too easily lost, too damning if found. My evening bag lay on the dresser. Too obvious. My tennis shoes… I quickly, fumbling slightly, tucked the tiny roll deep into the toe of one, then kicked it further under the bed. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best I could do. I took a deep breath, smoothed my expression into one of mild, sleepy annoyance, and unlocked the door.
Olivia practically burst into the room, her emerald green resort wear a stark contrast to the pallor of her face. Her usually perfect composure was frayed, her eyes wide with an emotion I couldn't immediately decipher – fear? Anger? Or a masterful imitation of both?
"What on earth is so important, Olivia?" I asked, feigning a yawn. "It's rather late."
"Late?" She scoffed, her gaze sweeping the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on my dishevelled bed. "Eleanor, something has happened. Something… significant, as I said. Mother just called. From New York."
Caroline. My internal alarms blared. "Is she alright? Is Father…?"
"They're fine," Olivia snapped, waving a dismissive hand. "It's not about them, not directly. It's about… us. Or rather, the Vance name." She paced the length of my suite, her movements agitated, a caged panther in silk. "Julian Thornecroft contacted Mother."
Thornecroft. The name alone sent a chill down my spine. My encounter with him in the garden felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been hours. "Thornecroft?" I kept my voice carefully neutral. "Why would he contact Caroline?"
Olivia stopped her pacing, her eyes locking onto mine with a new, unsettling intensity. "He… he offered her a warning, Eleanor. He said there are… elements… actively trying to destabilize the Vance Group. Old claims, he called them. Frivolous, of course, but potentially damaging if they gain traction in the press."
Old claims? My mind immediately flashed to the vellum, to the Rose Guard Fund, to my grandmother's fears of her true wishes being subverted. Was Thornecroft already moving against me, using Caroline as a pawn, or perhaps, a reluctant ally? Or was this something else entirely, a new threat emerging from the shadows?
"Destabilize the Vance Group?" I echoed, feigning confusion. "But who would do such a thing? And what kind of old claims?"
"He was vague," Olivia said, chewing on her perfectly painted lower lip, a rare sign of genuine agitation. "Something about… unresolved estate matters from Grandmother Annelise's time. He implied there might be… documents… surfacing. Documents that could be… misinterpreted." She looked directly at me then, her gaze sharp, probing. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about such documents, would you, Eleanor? You've been spending so much time with Grandmother's old things lately."
It was a direct hit, a verbal spear aimed at the heart of my secret. I met her gaze, my own carefully schooled into an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Documents? Olivia, I wouldn't know the first thing about Grandmother's estate matters beyond what Father has told us. I've just been… trying to feel closer to her memory. Reading her poetry, looking at old photographs. Nothing more."
Her eyes narrowed. She didn't believe me, not entirely. But she had no proof. "Well," she continued, her voice regaining some of its usual clipped precision, "Thornecroft seems to think this is serious. He advised Mother that the family needs to present a united front. To quash any… unseemly rumors… before they even begin."
"A united front?" I asked. "What does that entail?"
"It entails," Olivia said, a strange, almost triumphant gleam in her eye, "a rather public display of Vance family solidarity. Thornecroft has… suggested… that a significant, high-profile philanthropic gesture, made jointly by all primary Vance beneficiaries, would be an excellent way to demonstrate our family's stability and shared commitment to Grandmother Annelise's true legacy of giving."
I saw it then, the trap, or rather, the opportunity Olivia thought she was seizing. She believed Thornecroft was on their side, helping them protect their version of the Vance legacy. She saw this as a chance to further cement her own position, to showcase herself as a dutiful, philanthropic Vance, while simultaneously putting me, the "fragile" Eleanor, on public display, forcing me to play along with their narrative.
"A joint philanthropic gesture?" I mused, as if considering it. "What did he have in mind?"
"A substantial endowment to the New York City Opera," Olivia announced, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "A cause dear to Grandmother's heart, as you know. Thornecroft has even offered to… facilitate the arrangements, to ensure maximum positive publicity. He believes it will send a powerful message."
The New York City Opera. Grandmother Annelise had indeed been a patron. But the Rose Guard Fund, as described in the vellum, was meant for direct aid, for "hidden blooms," not for high-profile donations to established institutions. This was a perversion of her true wishes, a public relations stunt orchestrated by Thornecroft, with Caroline and Olivia as willing participants.
"It sounds… very generous," I said carefully. "And very… public."
"Exactly!" Olivia exclaimed. "It will show the world that the Vances are united, strong, and carrying on Grandmother's philanthropic spirit. No room for doubt, no space for… old, forgotten claims to take root." She smiled then, a wide, predatory smile. "Mother expects us back in New York by the end of the week to finalize the details. Our little tennis retreat, alas, is to be cut short."
So, Thornecroft wasn't just warning them; he was actively directing their strategy, using them to counter a threat he clearly perceived – the threat of the truth I was unearthing. His message to Caroline was a chess move, designed to force my hand, to draw me out, or to neutralize any information I might possess by overwhelming it with a public display of Vance unity.
"I see," I said, my mind racing. This changed my timeline. I needed to read that parchment, to contact Silas, to understand the ring's significance, all before I was dragged back to New York and thrust onto Thornecroft's carefully managed stage. "Well, if it's for the good of the family, Olivia, then of course, I understand."
Olivia looked momentarily surprised by my easy acquiescence, then her expression smoothed into one of smug satisfaction. "I knew you'd see reason, Eleanor. It's for the best. For all of us." She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Oh, and Eleanor?"
"Yes, Olivia?"
"Do try to look a little more… robust… when we return to New York. All this talk of destabilization… we wouldn't want anyone to think the Vance heiresses are easily… unsettled, would we?" With a final, chillingly sweet smile, she was gone, leaving me alone with the echo of her words and the frantic beating of my own heart.
The moment her footsteps faded down the corridor, I bolted the door and lunged for the tennis shoe under the bed. My fingers, trembling, retrieved the tiny, tightly rolled sliver of parchment. It was almost impossibly thin, fragile as a butterfly's wing. With infinite care, I began to unroll it.
The script was minuscule, faded, clearly written in haste, and in a hand I didn't recognize – Finch's, perhaps? It wasn't a long message, just a few cryptic lines:
Phoenix Rises. Rose Unfurls. Key Turns Within. Grimshaw's Guardian. Sarasota Bloom. Seek the Archivist where old roots drink deep. Time is a river. The current is strong. A.F.
Phoenix, Rose, Key. The symbols on the signet ring. Grimshaw's Guardian. Sarasota Bloom. The Archivist. More riddles, more layers. But "Archivist where old roots drink deep"… could that be a person, a place, connected to the Thornecroft Gardens, or perhaps to Evelyn Thornecroft's philanthropic work in the local arts, as the old magazine article had mentioned? And "Grimshaw's Guardian" – was that another person, someone entrusted by Arthur Grimshaw himself?
The urgency was suffocating. New York by the end of the week. A public performance orchestrated by Thornecroft. And Olivia, now armed with a new sense of purpose, her suspicions undoubtedly heightened. I had to decipher this message, contact Silas with this new information, and understand the ring's purpose before I was back in the heart of the viper's nest. The "significant development" Olivia had announced was indeed significant – it was a declaration of war, and Thornecroft was already moving his pieces across the board. What was his ultimate endgame in all of this? And was the "destabilization" he warned Caroline about a genuine threat from another quarter, or a carefully fabricated crisis designed to manipulate the Vances and flush me, and my grandmother's secrets, out into the open?