Chapter Seventy-Nine Holly
Chapter Seventy-nine
HOLLY
I get to the library room, where Sepulcrum is hidden. But it’s then I realize I don’t know where the entrance is. I’d assumed it would be obvious. My eyes fall on a large oil painting.
It depicts Lady Margaret Kensington in schoolmistress robes, with three sad-looking girls. They seem to be staring at me challengingly, from their palm-tree and sea back-drop.
I let my gaze drift around the room. Bookcases. OK. Maybe there’s some secret entrance in that way. I start pulling off books wildly, glancing over my shoulder.
‘You know,’ says a familiar voice from the doorway. ‘That’s no way to treat the classics. Even for a scholarship kid.’
I turn, part disbelief, part wild hope.
‘Fitzwilliam!’
He’s standing in the doorway, dripping wet, with what looks to be a pretty serious black eye, but is otherwise unhurt.
I run to the doorway, and without thinking, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
‘I thought you’d left the island,’ I say, pulling back. ‘Your face, it’s hurt.’
‘It’s good to see you too. It’s not as bad as it looks.’ He winces as I touch his cheek.
‘How did you get away?’
‘Ortiz tracked my pager signal to the boat I was on,’ he explains. ‘Scared the life out of my captors by taking over their radio and asking to speak with me. I managed to get away in the general mayhem.’ He hesitates. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘The picture of me with Adrianna. It wasn’t real …’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Perception and truth are different things. I’m learning that one. You should have gone to get help,’ I add. ‘Not come back here.’
‘And leave you alone on Death Island? Never. Especially not when I can help you out.’
He strides over to the family portrait, eyes it for a moment, then curls his fingers around the edge and pulls.
‘I think it’s a door,’ he explains, voice strained with effort. ‘But it seems to be locked.’
My eyes track around the portrait. There’s a set of discreet cables running from the top.
‘It’s probably an electromagnet lock,’ I decide. ‘Probably some clever way to pop it.’ I sigh. ‘I guess when Simone figured this for a hiding place, the painting wasn’t blocking the entrance.’
I cross the room and begin dragging a chair across. Stepping onto it, I yank the wires. The portrait gives an audible click, and peels a few inches from the wall.
‘High School Diploma in illegal entry,’ I tell him, hopping down.
‘They teach that in public school?’
‘No, they don’t teach that. I’m joking. One of us should wait here,’ I add. ‘I only interrupted the power. The door will probably reseal itself, if we don’t keep it open.’
Fitzwilliam pulls the portrait fully back. It turns on hinges.
We’re both silent as a dark row of steps is revealed, leading downwards.
The gap seems to loom out at us.
Fitzwilliam swallows. ‘I’ll go,’ he says, walking forwards.
‘What happened to ladies first?’ I say weakly, trying and failing to lift the sudden awful tension.
‘You wait at the top,’ he says, his face strained. ‘And keep watch.’
The darkness closes around him.
‘Fitzwilliam?’ I call after a few moments. ‘Is everything OK down there?’
A disembodied voice comes back from the dark below.
‘Depends how you define OK,’ he calls back.
I move nearer to the steps. ‘This is no time to joke,’ I tell him, glancing over my shoulder. ‘Are you OK or not?’
Something inaudible floats up the steps. He must have gone deeper into the panic room. I step forward, putting a hand on the doorframe at the top of the stair.
‘Fitzwilliam?’
More inaudible mumbles. Is he … groaning in pain? A flash of hot adrenalin hits me. Should I go down after him?
‘Fitzwilliam?’
He doesn’t answer. And before I can decide what to do, I feel a hard shove in my back.
My arms fly up on reflex as I pitch forward. Steps rise up to meet me as I fall headlong into the dark. Behind me, the portrait swings shut.