My hesitation makes Ceridwen’s lip curl. She grabs a bottle and thrusts it into my hands, dust billowing off in a small cloud. “Do whatever you need with it. My brother has pride in a wine reserve, but caring for his people? I have just as much love for his priorities as he does for mine.”
I snake my fingers around the neck. “He doesn’t know where you stand?”
Ceridwen chuckles bitterly. “I’m pretty sure he knows, but he’s never sober long enough to do more than idly wonder why I’m such a grouch. So what are you searching for, exactly?”
The question cuts hard into the air, weighted with the favors she’s done for me.
I tip the bottle upside down, right-side up, flipping and cleaning and searching every free space for . . . I don’t even know what. The Order of the Lustrate seal, maybe.
I keep my eyes on the bottle, though I feel the abrupt dip of severity in my throat. “I’d rather you weren’t involved in this until I have no other choice.” My eyes shoot up. “You have plenty of problems of your own, it seems.”
Ceridwen grunts in halfhearted acceptance.
I set down my bottle and pick another.
After twelve bottles, none of which give me more than a sneezing fit from the dust, I drop to my knees, facing the casks. Garrigan lingers behind me while Ceridwen gave up trying to help nine bottles ago and collapsed against the end of the wooden shelves, head bowed against her chest, lantern resting on the floor beside her.
The first cask sloshes when I ease it out. There’s nothing unusual on it, no Lustrate seal or keys stuck to the rim. The next one is the same.
And the next.
And the next.
I slide out another, brush my fingers over the exterior, analyze the wood. My surety all but snuffs out as I ease it back in and reach for the next. Maybe I was wrong—there are only a few more casks. It could be—
But this one sticks when I tug on it, clinging tight to the shelf. I pull again, but it holds.
Ceridwen curves forward, drawn by the way the shelf shakes with every fruitless yank. “Need help?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, fingers flying over whatever parts of the cask I can reach. I brush the bottom, a smooth line of something like wax that bends along the curve of the cask.
My forehead pinches. Someone fixed this cask to the shelf? Why? Is it that special to Summer?
Or is it that special to someone else?
Every cask bears a cork in the flat side, facing out. A swift jerk and I could open this one—and be met with a stream of wine if I’m wrong.
Or . . .
It’s theorthat makes me swivel onto my knees, bracing myself on the cold stone floor.
I wrap my fingers around the cork.Please, please, please . . .
Ceridwen flies to her feet and squeaks in protest as I fling my whole body back, using every spare muscle to wrench out the cork. She freezes, hands splayed, expecting the worst—
But nothing comes. The cork sits in my palm, the opening in the cask wide and clear.
My lungs depress beneath the yelp of shock I release.
It’s empty of wine. So whatisinside it?
Ceridwen’s arms flop to her hips, brows pinched, but she says nothing as I near the cask again. The edges of the flat side are expertly crafted, unable to be pried off, so I stand, turn, and kick through it with my heel.
The wood splinters with a silence-shattering explosion, cracking into a few frayed chunks. I whirl back around and haul them off completely, littering the floor with shards of wood. The lantern flickers from just beside Ceridwen’s feet, casting light into the cask.
And deep inside, jutting up from the bottom, sits a lever.
Warning flares through me, edging awareness to bite sharply at the edges of my mind.
