Page 39 of House of the Raven
“I highly doubt that.”
No answer again, only his usual indifference.
I keep walking, my thoughts churning. Amira doesn’t trust me, so she’s having me watched by a jerk who appeared out of nowhere, the same as the sorcerer.
If that’s a coincidence, then I’m a pink unicorn.
As we walk past a large clock, its pendulum swinging away, I note the time. I can still shirk Guardia Bastien and join Jago before my cousin starts to worry that something is wrong, and I know just how to do it. One thing about being new… he doesn’t know this place the way I do.
I make my way toward the greenhouse located on the third floor of the east wing, hurrying my step to make the most of the time I have left.
The sweet, citrusy fragrance of orange blossoms envelops me as I step into the glass enclosure. The expansive structure was commissioned by my great-great-great-grandfather as a tribute to his beloved wife. It spans two stories, and it’s built on an intricate metal frame, a work of art in itself. The metal is masterfully wrought into twisting vines that shape portholes, benches, frames, and spiral staircases that lead to the upper level. Some of these details are meticulously carved in copper, which has acquired a pretty greenish patina over time. It’s one of my favorite places in Nido, especially since Mother spent countless hours taking care of the plants. She offered special attention to the tulips, which have never looked the same since she passed away. Her brand of espiritu allowed her to communicate with plants, and her gentle touch seemed to revive even the most withered stems and leaves. I often wonder if I would have inherited her espiritu if the veil hadn’t disappeared.
I spend a moment admiring the blossoms under the moonlight that filters through the glass. Leaning close as if they have ears to hear me, I tell the flowers how pretty they are. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Guardia Bastien’s approach. He’s looking at me, probably thinking I’m crazy.
I suddenly glance in his direction and catch his curious stare. Immediately, his corpse-like expression returns.
Rolling my eyes, I weave between two rows of plants and make my way to one of the spiral staircases. It is narrow, so only one person can go at a time. Just to be obnoxious, I make my steps heavy. They clank loudly. Glancing down, I notice he has to stoop in order not to hit his head on the upper rungs. Recognizing my chance, I start running.
“Hey!” he yells. “Hold it right there.”
I reach the top, and like a child, blow him a raspberry. It’s stupid, I know, but the jerk is so stiff I delight in being the complete opposite. I run with steps just as loud as I used on the staircase, but when I reach the end of a row of pink roses, I duck and step lightly. Silently, I reach thefar corner, where there’s a hole in the metal floor and a smooth tube running vertically from the ceiling, passing through the center, and extending all the way down to the lower level. Smiling with satisfaction, I take hold of the tube and slide down its length. I land on the first floor, my feet as gentle as a ballerina’s.
“Where in all the hells are you?” Guardia Bastien hollers above.
With a spring in my step, I leave the greenhouse and rush to meet my cousin.
“I was about to go looking for you,” Jago says when I arrive five minutes later. “What took you so long?”
The scent of aged wood and candle wax permeates the small chapel. Saint Francis’ serene wooden countenance watches us from the altar. A circle of candles rests at his sandaled feet. There are four rows of pews facing him. Jago sits at the last one.
“I had to evade a certain jerk, the one who was dropped on his face as a baby,” I explain.
His honey-colored eyes widen, then flick toward the door. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t worry. I left him fumbling around in the Gloria Greenhouse. But we should hurry before he alerts everyone.”
I walk up to the altar, pick up one of the candles, and hand it over to Jago.
“Hold this,” I tell him, then climb the raised pulpit, and press a hidden button. A secret panel slides open behind Saint Francis, revealing a dark corridor. Right past the entrance, an oil lamp hangs from a hook. I retrieve it, remove its glass cover, and thrust it in Jago’s direction.
Quickly, he uses the candle to light it, and we enter the passage. There is a lever on the wall, which I pull down. The panel moves back into place with a scraping sound, and the space grows dimmer.
“Very clandestine.” Jago puts a hand on my shoulder as I lead the way. “I don’t know whether to soil my pants or dance a jig.”
I know exactly what he means. The fear of being discovered tingles over my skin, yet it’s not the only sensation coursing through me. Even though what lies ahead is unknown and fraught with danger, I can’t help the peculiar elation bubbling in my chest. For once, I’m following my own counsel—not only that, I have a purpose.
The passage winds, leading us to a set of narrow stairs. We descend for several minutes, then spill onto a cavernous space with several arched doorways. I take the third one from the right and continue down another narrow passage. The silence is only interrupted by our steps and the sound of droplets feeding a puddle somewhere in the distance.
“Where are you taking me, Val? Don’t tell me you’ve made a pact with the devil to use his realm as a shortcut.”
“No, no pact with the devil, only with Bodhránghealach.” He is one of the many fae deities Mother taught me about—the keeper of echoes, guardian of the underworld.
“Oh, I feel much better now, whoever Bocragelak is.”
“Not Bocragelak… Bodhránghealach.”
“Sure.”
