“How long has he been gone?” I’ve gathered almost no information since meeting her last night, but she did say she met her husband when she was twenty-one, and she can’t be more than thirty.
“Far too long.”
Another vague answer that offers me not even a single piece to add to the puzzle that is Sofie.
She squints upward, as if searching for something in the cloudless blue sky. It’s early afternoon and colder here than it was when we left New York, the wind carrying a blustering chill that makes me thankful for the sweater and jeans I found folded on the seat next to me when I woke.
“Follow me.” She strolls toward a heavy wooden door, her heels skillfully handling the uneven cobblestone.
“So, when are we breaking him out of this sort-of prison?”
Sofie has given me no more hints about what saving her husband means. I can only assume it’s not as straightforward as lifting a diamond necklace off a woman’s neck.
“Soon. Come, I must prepare you.”
“Oui,” I mimic under my breath, thankful for these slip-on boots as I chase behind her.
Chapter Four
“How can you see?” I steady myself with a hand against the stone wall as I trail Sofie down a steep, winding stairwell. The steps are precariously uneven, and the glow from the lantern I carry offers little illumination.
“I’ve descended these so many times, I could do so blindfolded.”
Walking into Sofie’s castle felt like traveling back in time, to an era of candlelight and ball gowns, sweeping staircases and elaborate moldings, soaring ceilings and grand reception rooms—all things I’ve only ever seen dramatized in TV and film and read about in stories, and nothing I imagined anyone living today.
The air was cold and stale as she led me farther in, and our footfalls echoed eerily. My senses were on overload as I absorbed every detail—somber faces painted in oil in gilded frames, suits of armor standing sentry, antique vases on pedestals that looked both ancient and valuable.
I was only treated to a brief glimpse of the vast collection of rooms before Sofie beckoned me to follow her. My disappointment in not getting a guided tour swelled.
Now, the farther we descend, the more apparent it is that we’re entering a darker, primeval part of Sofie’s grand home where the air smells of damp earth and age. It reminds me that this is not a vacation, and I am here for a specific purpose—one I do not yet understand but should be wary of.
“What’s down here?”
“We are going below the main castle where the storerooms and vault are located.”
“And the dungeons?” Is she leading me to my waiting cell like a dog following a pork chop?
Her laugh echoes. “If I wished to confine you in such a manner, you would be on your way to the north tower. That is where captives were often imprisoned.”
“Sounds hospitable.” I’ve noticed that Sofie has an uncanny ability of answering my unspoken thoughts.
“Better than the gallows or the pyre.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Though, important captives were often afforded free rein within the castle walls, and the accommodations were quite hospitable. Still, they were held for years, unable to leave unless the lord allowed it.”
I’m relieved when my boots touch the floor.
“This is the undercroft.” One after another, torches ignite in a burst of flame to illuminate a corridor that extends as far as my eyes can see. Massive pillars stand like a line of soldiers on either side to support the great weight of the castle. High above us, the stone ceiling joins in sweeping arches that draw my enthralled gaze.
I study the wrought iron fixtures anchored on each pillar as we pass. There’s obviously no electricity down here, and each torch burns with an authentic flame. “How did they light?”
“With fire.”
For a woman who insists on not lying to me, Sofie is the master of avoiding the truth.
The floor is hard, packed earth, and it dulls our footfalls as she leads me forward. Every so often, I catch scurrying movement out of the corner of my eye that makes me shudder. I’ve seen plenty of rats haunting alleyways and city streets, and I’ve never grown used to them.
“What happened there?” I nod toward a pile of stone rubble.
“These walls are hundreds of years old. They require constant repair. It is one of the downfalls of maintaining such a home.” She sighs. “If Elijah didn’t love it so, I would have abandoned it long ago.”
Every time Sofie talks about her husband, it sounds like she hasn’t seen him in an eternity.
“And that?” I point to a patched, uneven wall. “That crumbled too?”
“No. That was a private entry in the first castle, left in ruins after a great battle. Infiltrators scaled the hill and entered through that very spot. When the marquis began to rebuild, he closed off this entry, fearing too many knew of its existence. But he eventually deserted the project in favor of a life elsewhere. This castle as it stands today would not be finished for another six decades.”
“And who finished it?”
“The Count of Montegarde, as he was known at that time.” She smiles, as if the name brings her fond memories. “It was far grander than the original or even what the marquis’s revised designs had in mind.”
Awe stretches across my face as Sofie casually dishes out details about the rebuilt castle—the two-level library in the west wing that hosts Elijah’s rare-book collection, the grand ballroom where several famous composers once played, the walled garden on the south side that is overtaken by a two-hundred-year-old wisteria vine in the summer.
Despite the dire situation I’ve found myself trapped in, I can’t help but be mesmerized. I feel as though I’ve stepped into a story of royalty and old-world glamour. In those years between running from my mother and building a life for myself, I spent most days in the public library, where it was safe, and warm, and quiet, escaping my world by getting lost in fictional ones that painted lives like the one these crumbling walls must have entertained.
A gray tabby cat scampers across my path, causing me to stumble a step. It darts through an opening in a small iron gate. “Where does that lead?”
“Out to the garden on one end, but if you climb the narrow passage all the way up, you will find yourself in the lord’s bedchamber.”
“A secret passageway.” There’s no missing the thrill in my tone.
“But of course, a thief would be most fascinated by those.” She grins. “These castles were always built with plans to flee in mind. The royal chambers often have an escape route. It was usually hidden behind a bookcase or a tapestry, or a statue. Sometimes it is a trapdoor beneath a rug. And occasionally it is quite elaborate. In my chamber, there is a mechanism to open a panel in the wall beside the fireplace.”
“That is so cool,” I blurt, all semblance of calm vanishing. “Can you take me through them all later?”
Her smile wavers. “This way.” She marches forward, and I can’t help but notice that her enthusiasm for playing tour guide has dulled. “Malachi gave me precious little time to explain, Romeria, so please listen carefully. Are you listening?”
“Yes. And it’s Romy.” Her question makes me feel more like a petulant child than the talented thief she insists everything hinges on.