Page 95 of Iron Roses

“Allegra found something.”

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When we enter the house, Allegra is already waiting. She's standing at the edge of the great room, near the long table where reports and maps had been left in our failed attempts to triangulate a trail.

She doesn’t look up when we step in. Her attention is fixed on something in her hands—aged leather, worn at the edges.

A journal.

She turns toward us and holds it up with both hands. Her eyes are rimmed red. Not from tears, but from the absence of sleep.

She stops in front of me and looks down at the book. Her fingers stroke the spine once.

“I found this in her room. She kept it hidden. It’s her father’s. After he died, I helped her get it back.”

She hands it to me.

The leather is cracked beneath my palm. The binding creaks when I open it.

Inside—no inscription. No message. Just ink.

A map, hand-drawn. No names I recognize. Lines curve and split along a jagged coast, dotted with notes in symbols I don’t understand. Some locations are marked with stars. Others with slashes. Small town names—“Portsea,” “Rosebud,” “Queenscliff”—stand out, faded, surrounded by curls of script and lines that overlap like tangled thread.

Allegra steps closer and points to one mark—near the edge of the coast, just at the curl of a bay.

“This is a dock,” she says. “I don’t know what kind, but it’s isolated. I think it’s private. Not commercial.”

Her finger taps the spot again, firmer.

“Oreste knew this place. And Fausto is his brother. He’d know it too. If he was looking for somewhere quiet—somewhere off-grid—this would be it.”

The map doesn’t give an exact location, but it gives direction. The lines around the coast converge here. There’s a note in shorthand next to it. I don’t know what it says.

Lorenzo crosses his arms and looks over my shoulder.

“We’ve covered land,” he mutters. “Maybe it’s time we start with the sea.”

The map bends slightly in my grip as I press my thumb along the page.

I lower the journal.

Lorenzo sees the look and nods before I have to say anything.

“I’ll get the men ready.”

He turns for the door.

The knock comes before he reaches it.

Lorenzo pauses, hand on the handle. He opens it.

She stands in the doorway.

Elaria.

The hall behind her brightens with morning light, but it doesn’t reach her face.

Her skin is pale. Not the kind of pale that comes from winter. This is something deeper. She’s lost weight—noticeable in her wrists, in the shape of her collarbone. Her clothes hang loose, sleeves folded at the cuffs. Someone else’s shirt.

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