Page 36 of Iron Roses

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing the quiet.

I let the journal slide from my arms onto the bed, then lower myself beside it, knees folding awkwardly. The sheets are still rumpled—his bed had felt warmer.

The journal creaks when I open it—leather stiff from age, or maybe just memory. My fingers hesitate at the edge of the first page, afraid of what I’ll find. Or not find.

There’s no letter. No explanation. Just a map.

Hand-drawn. Ink faded in places, smudged at the corners like it had been folded and reopened a hundred times.

I lean closer, brow furrowing. It's not a city map. Not exactly. There are no street names. No landmarks I recognize.

Curved lines snake along a coastline I can’t place, dotted with tiny handwritten notes in a shorthand I neverlearned. There are docks, maybe. Piers? Some marked with stars, others with slashes. A few names—“Portsea,” “Rosebud,” “Queenscliff”—but they mean nothing to me. Lines connect the marks like threads in a spider’s web, crisscrossing water and land with no clear pattern.

My fingers hover above the page.

What was he trying to show me?

What am I supposed to understand?

I flip to the next sheet—more of the same. Routes. Hidden paths, maybe? Smuggler trails? There’s a tiny drawing of what might be a warehouse. Or a tunnel. I can't tell.

I sit back, the journal resting heavy in my lap. It smells faintly of tobacco and old paper, like his coat used to.

The ache in my chest tightens. My eyes sting, but I don’t cry again.

I close the book, like if I shut it gently enough, it might make sense the next time I open it. My eyes fall shut, lids heavy from grief, from too many unanswered questions pressing in from every side.

Then the door crashes open.

I jerk upright, heart in my throat.

Allegra barrels into the room like a storm, her eyes wide, frantic. “Quickly,” she hisses, scanning the corners like she's expecting ghosts. “Under the bed!”

I don’t move.

“Now, Elaria.”

The urgency in her voice slices through my confusion, and I scramble down, journal clutched tight against my chest. Allegra drops beside me and pulls the dust ruffle back into place just as the door swings again.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, barely shaping the words through my shaking.

Allegra’s hand clamps over mine. “Shut up.”

Then—another door groans open.

The bathroom.

Followed by the creak of the closet hinges.

I can’t see them, but I hear everything. My breath is a fragile thing, held behind my ribs like a secret. The journal digs into my sternum, its corners sharp, grounding.

“Uncle, this is ridiculous,” Lorenzo snaps. His voice is sharp, angry. “Why would we give refuge to a Fontanesi?”

My stomach coils.

Another voice answers, older, colder. Calculating. “I have men who tell me she is here.”

“They’re lying,” Lorenzo replies. “Cassian would never take her in.”

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