Page 17 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
"I think someone believes it does. The velvet, the footprint, the tampering: pieces on a board. And if this mask truly carries a map, then someone here intends to claim it."
For once she doesn't have a quick retort. She studies the mask again, eyes narrowing. Her silence tells me she's turning the possibility over despite herself.
"When the Calusa spoke of treasure," I say, my voice quiet, reverent, "I doubt they meant gold or jewels. Their power wasn't mined or grown—it was fished, engineered, commanded."
Allison tilts her head, studying me through the half-light like she's weighing every word for weakness. "So you're saying this thing isn't pointing to a stash of gold and silver in the swamps?" Her tone is skeptical, clipped, but there's an edge of curiosity in it she can't hide.
A faint smile tugs at my mouth, not amusement but patience. "The Calusa built an empire without farming. They mastered the sea—nets of palm fiber, canals through mangroves, fishponds that fed thousands. To them, that was treasure. Power."
Allison folds her arms, eyes narrowing on the mask. "Knowledge as currency. Techniques that could keep a whole people alive."
"Exactly." I trace the lines on my page, feeling the weight of what's been lost. "Gold and silver—even from Spanish wrecks—were ornaments. Symbols. Real wealth was control: food, labor, belief."
Her breath slips out in a wry exhale. "Belief. You mean the spiritual side."
"The Calusa said each person had three souls," I murmur. "They raised mounds to the sky, and in their ceremonies, priests wore masks like this. Not disguises—conduits. Power made flesh."
She studies me in silence, shadows hardening her face. "So the mask itself is the treasure. Authority. Legitimacy. A claim on the spirit world."
I hold her gaze, steady. "Yes. And if someone believes in that power, it's more dangerous than gold."
Her laugh is soft, without humor, and it cuts sharper than any blade. "Dangerous, sure. Because people don't just kill for money. They kill for power and for faith."
The silence that follows is thick, pressing in on us. The mask stares back from the case between us, its features frozen, unreadable. I can't shake the sense that it knows more than it should, as though the real secret is still buried inside it, waiting for us to be brave—or foolish—enough to find it.
"I'll need to compare this pattern to other references," I continue. "Saltmoor's library should have the atlases I need. The Murphys collect everything from colonial charters to pirate logs."
Her lips curve. "Of course you'd know that."
"Of course I would. I knew Ryan long before he became a billionaire."
We slip away from the staff and security, heading for the library on the second floor. The hall stretches long, lined with portraits whose painted eyes follow every step. Allison moves like she belongs here, like she owns the ground she covers, and I can't help the sense of pride at walking beside her. She notices everything: the creak of a door, the shift of a servant's glance, the weight of silence where sound should be. She notices me too, though she works hard to hide it.
Inside, the library smells of polished wood, fine leather and old paper. Shelves climb toward the high ceiling, ladders resting against them like afterthoughts. Heavy curtains mute the sun, casting the room in honeyed shadow. Allison closes the door behind us, her movements precise, controlled, as though she can will away the pull between us.
I move to the long oak table at the center, spreading the reference books I need. She leans against the far end, arms crossed, watching me as though daring me to bore her. I find the symbols I copied from the mask into my notebook, then flip through atlases, searching for a match. Minutes stretch, broken only by the rustle of pages.
Finally, I find it: etched into a seventeenth-century chart of Florida's Gulf Coast. The same directional patterns, leading inland toward a network of rivers. My pulse quickens, the weight of history pressing sharply. This isn't myth. This is fact.
I look up. Allison is still watching, her expression unreadable. "You found something," she says.
I push the atlas toward her. "See for yourself."
She bends over the table, eyes scanning the map. Our shoulders almost touch. Her perfume is subtle, fresh, distracting in ways I don't want to name. "Bloody hell," she whispers. "It matches."
"It does." I close the space deliberately, bracing my hand on the table beside hers. "Which means the mask is more than ceremonial. It's a key."
Her eyes flash to mine. "And you're planning to use it, aren't you?"
I hold her gaze. "I'm planning to stop whoever else is."
Something flickers across her face: fear, maybe, though she hides it quickly. She straightens, folding her arms tight again. "So what do you expect me to do? Guard you whilst you play treasure hunter?"
"I expect you to admit you believe me now."
She lets out a sharp breath, half laugh, half surrender. "You're insufferable."
"And you're still here."
