Chapter 5
The candle flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the damp stone walls of the alcove. Clara stared up at Julian, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of hope and profound fear. The concept of being someone of importance was entirely foreign to a child who had spent her entire life scrubbing grease from copper pots and dodging the heavy wooden spoons of the head housekeeper.
“If I am a Vane,” Clara whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of the plumbing pipes, “why did Madam Eleanor put me down here? Why does she hate me so much?”
“Because fear makes monsters out of people, Clara,” Julian answered, rising to his feet and pacing the cramped confines of the room. His mind raced through the financial state of the estate. Eleanor had always lived extravagantly, but lately, rumors of mounting debts had begun to circulate among the high society circles in the capital. If Clara’s existence came to light, the entire estate, the titles, and the remaining trust funds would revert to the true heir. Eleanor would be left penniless, exposed as both a fraud and a usurper.
“We need proof that the courts will accept,” Julian murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. “A single engraved pearl is damning, but Eleanor’s legal team will claim it was stolen from her private collection. We need documentation. Birth records, baptismal certificates, or the original family registry.”
“The big office,” Clara said suddenly, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “Upstairs. Where the old desk is. Madam Eleanor keeps a big black book locked inside the bottom drawer. She goes there every night after everyone goes to sleep. She touches it like it’s magic.”
Julian stopped pacing. The private study on the third floor had been sealed off since their father’s death. Eleanor claimed it was haunted by tragic memories, but Julian now suspected it was where she kept the paper trail of her crimes.
“Can you show me where the spare key is kept?” Julian asked, looking down at his sister with newfound determination.
Clara nodded hesitantly, crawling off the thin mattress and reaching behind a loose stone in the foundation wall. She pulled out a heavy, iron key wrapped in an oily rag. It was cold and rusted, but the unique notched head matched the antique locks of the east wing doors.
“The housekeeper keeps it in her apron pocket when she cleans the hallway,” Clara explained in a conspiratorial whisper. “I took it yesterday when she left it on the laundry cart. I wanted to see what was behind the big doors.”
Julian took the key, feeling its heavy weight in his palm. The danger of what they were planning could not be overstated. If Eleanor caught them trespassing in the sealed study, she wouldn’t just throw Clara into the cellars—she would likely have Julian declared legally incompetent and committed to a private asylum in the mountains. Power made desperate people extraordinarily violent.
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“Wait here,” Julian instructed, slipping the iron key into his trouser pocket. “Lock this door from the inside and don’t open it for anyone. Not even me, unless I give the three-knock signal.”
“Be careful, Julian,” Clara said, her small hand reaching out to tug anxiously at the hem of his bright blue jacket. “She has eyes everywhere. Even the portraits on the walls seem to watch us.”
