Page 10

I ’M THE LAST ONE OUT OF THE CAR. W HEN MY BOOTS HIT THE SNOW, I look up, eyeing the fortress above me.

Fortress, literally. Volenvell was designed in the eleventh century to keep occupants safe from invaders from every direction, from every danger imaginable in the medieval era of its provenance.

Impenetrable for nearly the past thousand years.

And you’re going to be the one to penetrate its walls? the voice in me whispers. Yeah, no.

I dismiss its disdain. I have what hordes of invaders in the Dark Ages didn’t, I remind myself.

My crew.

Evaluating my family’s stronghold, our week’s mission in intimidating physical form, I reacquaint myself with its familiar silhouette.

Large square towers with slanted roofs rise from the center of the castle-like extensions of the mountain itself.

The perimeter consists of concentric structures with their own parapets.

Past them waits the courtyard with the vault.

Except for the gray shingled roofs, everything is the same rough stone.

Defensive design. Elegance in intimidation.

I remember what the hard exterior hides. Hallways, anterooms, passages, and stairways intended to ensconce opulence in impassable protection. Volenvell itself is my adversary this week no less than Leonie is.

My home and my opponent.

What else is new?

I follow my group to the portcullis. Not one for guests, and with only a mountaintop to work with, the private driveway is narrow and leads right up to the medieval castle defense.

Honestly, I did not expect how the pull of memories would hold me in the imposing entrance. I haven’t visited Volenvell in ten years, yet the recollection of the Olivia who walked in this entryway, hand in her mother’s, frost pinkening her cheeks, hits me powerfully.

I felt so small the last time I was here. Small and innocent. Everything was different. My parents loved each other, and I looked forward to a future of visits to see my family in Switzerland. The princess with her snowy castle.

Not anymore. I’m not small or innocent. With each visit, Leonie’s harsh, manipulative demeanor and the warped echoes of her in my aunt, uncle, and cousins put cracks in the snow globe.

The unhidden snickers when my mom mispronounced one of the wines.

My cousin Finn returning inside blue-faced after my uncle left him on the nearby mountaintop to force skiing practice on him.

No, the only fairy-tale part of Volenvell Castle is its curse. The Owens curse. Suspicion, envy, self-destruction.

Passing through the portcullis, I walk up the front steps with my head high, drawing mountain air into my lungs. Yes, I know my family can cast me out, can rip everything away from me. What I’ve learned is that I can do the same to them.

I find the massive front door unlocked, which isn’t surprising. Only Leonie’s guests could have used the private road leading here.

The room that greets every guest is not grand. It’s small—easier to warm. The hardwood floor is darkened and worn with the years. The woven rug is gently used and, I have no doubt, priceless. When I join my friends inside, we only just fit.

The foyer is the perfect introduction to Volenvell. It’s unconcerned with impressing because it doesn’t have to. Its very nature is impressive. Even in narrow dark rooms, you will never, not for one second, forget where you are. Whose castle you’re in.

Of course, Grandmother Leonie herself is not welcoming visitors. Instead, the man in the foyer is in his forties. He’s lean, wiry, with silver-streaked golden hair. He has a spry European vigor, as if he just got off the ski slopes and into his impeccable sable suit.

None of these qualities matter to me, for I recognize our host. The man from the train.

The dark-suited stranger who met my eyes while we pulled our sting on Quinn Rhodes, then disappeared when we reached Rothbad, stands in the foyer of my grandmother’s castle. A spy after all, then. Only not for Dash—for Leonie.

He saw us on the train—all of us. I have a feeling that could be a problem. I’m going to have to keep my eye on him.

“Welcome, Olivia. I’m Otto Karlson, the house manager,” he introduces himself warmly.

His accent is hard to identify. Swiss German via England, I venture to guess, though honestly my main repertoire of knowledge is YouTube interviews with foreign fashion designers.

“Mrs. Owens is delighted you could make the trip,” he says.

Not delighted enough to come down from playing pinochle and greet her granddaughter in person, obviously.

“Is she?” I ask, unable to help myself. Either not perceiving or immune to my sarcasm—if he’s had to deal with my lovely cousin Mia recently, it could be either—Otto smiles kindly. “Didn’t I see you on the train in?” I press him.

Otto doesn’t look surprised by my recognition. “Well spotted,” he praises me. “I was making a final arrangement for Mrs. Owens. Needed to be done in person.”

Yeah, I don’t believe him for one second.

Leonie is watching me. Though nervous-making, it’s not uninteresting. Like my invitation in the first place. Leonie likely considers me dangerously close to Dash, even despite my estrangement with my father.

Manager means minion in hallways like Leonie’s. I used Quinn when I needed him during the wedding heist. Otto Karlson might, I understand, present unforeseen obstacles. It’s my job to ensure Leonie’s lackey presents opportunities instead.

Otto addresses the rest of the group, who have assembled around me. “Jackson Roese is it, yes?” he inquires, not pausing over the unconventional vowels in Jackson’s floral surname. “Olivia’s guest?”

Jackson nods, looking uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know what to do in this setting—which he doesn’t. Jackson has never met a house manager before. He probably didn’t know they existed.

“Thanks, um,” he says, “for having me.”

“I will pass your thanks on to Mrs. Owens,” Otto replies earnestly. A gentle correction, but a correction, nonetheless.

Otto faces the rest of our party.

“Thomas and Grace Pham,” he goes on. “Mia is already here and will be pleased you have arrived safely.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Thomas does not look uncomfortable. “Our bags are in the car,” he replies, polite if not friendly. “Will we be expected to bring them in?”

“Of course not,” Otto reassures him. The house manager is probably not unfamiliar with rudeness far exceeding Knight’s inquiry. “I will show you all to your rooms and we will have your bags brought to you. There will be a welcome dinner tonight at eight o’clock.”

Hands clasped in front of him, Otto smiles in culmination of his welcome.

“At any time in your stay, if you require anything at all, please do find me. You are all guests of Mrs. Owens, and as such we will treat everyone under our turrets as family,” he pronounces proudly.

How kind…, I want to say.

Doesn’t he know what they do to family here?