Page 26

TWENTY-SIX

Escape

Vivianne

The door leading out of my room is locked, but I refuse to be trapped. The lock is old, nothing a simple bobby pin can’t pick. It takes a moment, but soon, I’m wandering the halls of an estate rivaling the Faulks mansion.

Wealth seeps from the walls. My mind keeps circling back to the missing memories. Only one possibility makes sense. I was drugged and taken.

But by whom?

I stumble, my hand pressing against my belly. That leads to the next obvious question.

I tighten my focus on the hallway stretching in front of me. That question and the many that follow will be answered later. Right now, I need to escape.

I pass several doors—ornate masterpieces, like everything in this place—which stand open, welcoming me inside. All lead into rooms similar to my own. Other than the furniture, the rooms appear empty with no signs of personal effects.

No signs of other people.

I duck inside the first two rooms and check the attached baths, looking for evidence of habitation. They’re all pristine. And none of the rooms lead outside, not that I expect they would.

I creep along the hall, keeping to the edge, my fingers trailing against the warm grain of the paneled walls. The windows I pass ripple with age.

Clouds obscure the sun, but light penetrates through, reflecting and refracting against a land deep in the grip of winter. Spring might have come to Paris, but winter rules here.

Snow falls thick from the overladen sky and drifts against the trees. I’ll need warmer clothes and better shoes if I try to make a run for it. Hypothermia is as much, if not more, of a threat than my unknown captor.

If I find a garage, I won’t need to worry about freezing outside. I can drive away and make my escape.

A sweeping staircase leads down to a lower level at the end of the hall. I approach slowly, my ears ringing with the oppressive silence. A hushed quiet vibrates in the air, whispers across my skin, and lifts the fine hairs of my arms.

Where is everyone?

The garage should be on a lower floor, but heading down the stairs could expose me to my absent host or hosts. They clearly intend for me to remain locked in my room, and I’m not ready to meet them face-to-face.

The longer they think I’m safely locked away, the better for my efforts at finding a way out.

There has to be another way off this floor. There—a narrow door at the far end of the hall. Smaller than any other and simplistic design, it looks like a servant’s access point.

Faulks manor is riddled with halls only the servants use and unadorned passageways focused on utility instead of broadcasting wealth to impress visitors. This place is no different.

To my relief, the door opens on silent hinges. I slip through the doorway and onto a dimly lit landing.

No windows.

A set of wooden steps spirals down. With my hand bracing the wall, I descend. The steps creak, and I adjust my step to place my weight on the outer edges of the stairs. Each step takes me deeper into darkness.

My breath pounds in my ears, long pulls forcing air against the growing constriction of my lungs.

Master your fear, or it will consume you.

The mantra from my childhood whispers against my growing fear.

I repeat the phrase with each placement of my foot and shiver against a growing chill. Both the steps and the curved wall change suddenly around a single sweep of the stairs. The wood from above is replaced with stone, and the rough edges grate against my palm.

With a squint, I peer forward and down. Every now and then, I crane my neck, seeking more light. I’ve already made a handful of turns around the spiral stairs, and I’m losing the light.

Surely, I should have reached the main floor by now.

It isn’t clear how far I descend, and there’s no easy way to know how many revolutions I make. I press my palm lightly against the wall, relying on feeling as much or more than sight. Nothing, except smooth-cut stone, passes beneath my palm or my feet.

Maybe this bypasses the main floor and heads to a sub-level or basement where the servants live. If that’s the case, the garage will be there too.

Or I hope it is.

I take another step, circling the center pillar until the light disappears completely. I hold one hand before my face and press the other against the wall.

Each step becomes a cautious endeavor. I lift my foot, brush the current step with my toe, and trust the step height remains the same. Over and over, I descend deep into the earth.

The chill radiating from the walls seeps through the air, biting at my skin and digging into my bones. I will not fear. But I’m scared to death.

I stretch my toe out, bend my knee, and find a flat floor. With my breath sawing in and out and my heart pounding with the beat of a kettledrum, I take a tentative step.

I don’t lift my palm from the stone wall. That’s my only anchor and reference point. In this suffocating darkness, it is too easy to get turned around.

Like a blind man, I fumble, my fingers seeking something, anything. Then, I find an irregularity in the wall. A tiny crack, a fingers breadth wide, running in a vertical slit.

I trace the seam until my arms stretch over my head. If this is a door, it’s taller than I am. To keep my bearings, I dig the fingers of my right hand into the crack and then reach my other hand outward, searching for a handle. Silently, I pray this is indeed a door and not something else. But then my fingers fumble against something cold and hard.

Metal.

I follow the curve outward and find a latch.

With a breath of relief, I pull on the clasp and tug. Nothing. My heart hammers, and panic laces every breath.

No. No. No!

I beat at the stone and fall against the door with frustration. But then it occurs to me to push instead of pull. The door swings inward, spilling me into another chamber.

My motion triggers a response. The lights flicker and then flare with a blinding light. I blink against the unexpected illumination, and then I falter.

Stretched before me, row upon row of painted canvases, sculptures, and other works of art extend into what appears to be a monstrous cave. I glance up, my mouth agape as I take in the height of the cave. Stalactites hang from the ceiling but barely make it a quarter of the way to the floor. Rather than an uneven surface, the ground has been evened out and covered in concrete. Rough-hewn timber forms shelves, each one stacked with artifacts, sculpture, and art.

One piece in particular draws my eye. The Lovers , which has to be a replica, leans against the wall.

Next to it sits an easel, and beside that is a countertop stacked full of paints, clean brushes, and rags. I approach with awe, my fingers stretching forward, needing to feel the authenticity every other sense screams is there.

This can’t be real.

The original hangs in the private halls of the Faulks mansion. It has for decades upon decades, brought overseas at the end of World War II and lovingly cared for by my grandfather, my father, and eventually me when the time comes.

“You don’t want to do that, Mademoiselle Faulks.”

I spin at the noise, heart pounding.

An old man stands at the entrance, the black opening of the stairwell framing his six-foot stature. Over his head, in the keystone of the stone arch, the carving of a hawk stretches its wings outward in flight.

The man displays none of the frailty of his age. Late seventies or older, he moves like a much younger man and stands with an intimidating posture. Gray hair sticks out in every direction, bringing forth images of Albert Einstein to mind, but this man lacks the horn-rimmed glasses and thick nose of the famous physicist.

His eagle eyes study me. A strong jaw, aristocratic nose, upturned full lips, and piercing blue eyes sculpt his features. The gentleman carries himself with purpose, a sharp intelligence radiating from the steel in his gaze.

I take a step back, casting a look over my shoulder, and curse myself for being distracted by The Lovers .

Instead of finding an exit, I’m trapped with my captor.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

“My name is not important. What you’re doing down here, however, is of great concern.”

“Great concern?” I laugh, the sound brittle even to my ears. “How about explaining who you are, how I came to be here, and why you locked me in a room upstairs? Or why you have a copy of The Lovers in this cave?”

He arches a single brow, his features composed and calculating. “Who I am is immaterial. How you came to be here will be explained in due course. And as to why I locked you in a room upstairs?” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “That was not my decision.”

“Then, whose?” I demand, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

He sweeps his arm toward the darkened opening, inviting me to do as he commands. “Now, if you would kindly return to your room. You may refresh yourself if you wish.” He turns his wrist and glances at his watch. “Supper will be served at four.”

“Four?” Have I lost time? Surely, it’s barely noon.

He regards me with a placid expression, seeming convinced I will do exactly as he commands. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze.

“I’m going nowhere until you answer my questions.”

“I believe I have answered them all—at least, as much as I’m able.”

“What about the painting? Why do you have a copy of it here?”

His brows pinch together. “I assure you, Mademoiselle Faulks, that is no copy.”

But it can’t be.

I open my mouth to argue, but he continues before I can speak.

“Now,” he says, his tone turning firm, “if you would kindly allow me to escort you back to your room. Your host will join you for dinner.”

“And who is my host?”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing my sincerity. “Do you not know?” The crinkles around his eyes deepen, giving him an air of quiet amusement.

“No. I don’t.” My throat tightens, each word coming out hoarse. “I have no idea how I got here.”

“Paul de Gaulle, of course.” He turns slightly, gesturing toward the stairwell. “Now, if you will accompany me.”

Paul?

The name echoes in my mind, and for a moment, everything stops. I struggle to make sense of it.

“Paul brought me here?” My breath feels shallow, my pulse quickening.

“Yes.” His response is simple, almost matter-of-fact as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“But why?” I take a half step forward, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint of an answer.

“That’s for him to explain.” His gaze holds steady, betraying nothing.

My thoughts scramble for anything that fits, but I come up blank. The last thing I remember is the auction, his arm around me… And then nothing.

Now, I’m in his house?

“That can’t be right,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Paul wouldn’t lock me in a room.” My voice falters, the uncertainty tightening around my chest.

He tilts his head with the slightest movement, but his expression remains unchanged.

“Wouldn’t he?” His tone is calm, but the question lingers in the air like a challenge.

His eyes glint with something just beneath the surface, something I can’t name, and it unnerves me.

I frown, my mind spinning. “I don’t—” The words tangle in my throat, the confusion pressing down.

His shoulders relax, but only slightly, as though he knows more than he’s willing to share. “You’ll have your answers soon, Mademoiselle Faulks.” His voice is smooth, too smooth, and with that, he gestures toward the stairs once more.

It doesn’t add up. Why would he lock me in a room? Why wouldn’t he tell me what happened? There’s a gnawing sense of something missing, something important that I can’t grasp.

The old man watches me, his face impassive.

I want to press him, demand to know why Paul left me like this, confused and alone, but the words won’t come. A knot tightens in my chest as I fight the overwhelming need for answers.

“When can I see him?”

“He’s attending to matters of importance.” His eyes flicker, just a hint of something unspoken. “You’ll see him soon. For now, it’s best to wait for him in your room.”

The thought of waiting, of being left in the dark any longer, sends a ripple of unease through me. But what choice do I have?

I glance at The Lovers .

This man believes it to be the original. Why would Paul have a copy of it here? I spent my childhood at the base of that painting, the real one, dreaming of a man and woman deeply in love.

They were the parents I never had.

The mother I never knew.

The chill of the cement floor leeches through the thin soles of my shoes. I jut out my chin and attempt to portray a confidence I don’t feel.

I leave the chilly cave behind, but not before glancing one more time at a Van Gogh few have ever seen. It is a nearly perfect copy; it almost looks authentic.

The stairwell outside is lit by incandescent bulbs, which illuminate the cut rock. I begin my ascent, my mind filled with questions.

Paul.

His name circles through my mind like a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit. How does he have a cave filled with priceless art—some I’ve only ever heard whispered about in private circles?

What’s really going on here?

There are too many questions, and no one is giving me answers.