Chapter 6
The third-floor corridor of the Vane estate was a graveyard of memories. Portraits of ancestors stretching back four centuries lined the shadowy walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow Julian as he navigated the thick silence. The air here was stagnant, smelling of old parchment, polished mahogany, and dust that had settled undisturbed for years.
Julian held a small brass lantern he had salvaged from the scullery, its flickering light casting erratic shadows across the ornate wallpaper. His heart beat a steady, frantic rhythm against his ribs. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot in the midnight stillness. He checked his watch; it was past two in the morning. Eleanor should be deep in sleep within her luxurious chambers on the opposite side of the estate, cushioned by feather beds and silk coverlets.
He reached the heavy double doors of the private study. The brass handles were tarnished and cold to the touch. Drawing a deep breath to steady his nerves, Julian slipped the heavy iron key into the ancient lock. It turned with a deep, echoing thud that made him freeze in place, waiting to see if any guards had heard the mechanical click.
Silence answered him. He slowly pushed the left door open just enough to squeeze his slender frame through.
The study was vast, dominated by a towering oak bookshelf that spanned two stories and a massive mahogany desk positioned beneath a tall arched window overlooking the moonlit gardens. Dust motes drifted lazily through the silver beams of light piercing the glass. Julian walked toward the desk, his shoes making no sound on the thick oriental rug that absorbed the ambient noise of the room.
He reached the large mahogany desk and dropped to his knees. The bottom drawer was indeed fitted with a small brass lock, distinct from the rest of the furniture. Julian pulled out a small pocketknife with a flathead screwdriver attachment from his suit pocket and set to work on the delicate mechanism. His hands were steady, trained by years of delicate mechanical hobby work, but the tension made his palms slick with sweat.
With a soft click, the internal tumbler gave way.
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Julian pulled the drawer open. Inside rested a single object: a thick ledger bound in black calfskin leather, its edges worn from heavy use. Embossed on the cover in faded gold leaf was the personal seal of the family attorney, a man who had mysteriously retired to the coast shortly after the fatal fire a decade ago.
Julian lifted the ledger, feeling a profound sense of dread. He opened the heavy cover to the first page, holding his lantern closer to read the meticulous handwriting penned in black ink.
