I turned toward the boys. “What if Constance didn’t mean a flower?”
My question ended their spat and Julien drifted closer, studying each tree as he passed by.
“That’s a—”
“A hawthorn,” I said, running my hands along it, searching for any place in the carved bark where the marble held any give. At the base, where the trunk separated, its roots digging into the floor, there was a slight variation in the stone, almost imperceptible.
I pushed it and, on the other side of the trunk, a hidden box sprang open, revealing a small, silver key.
Julien’s breath hitched. “Well done, Miss Thaumas,” he murmured begrudgingly.
With a snap of Viktor’s fingers, a series of candelabras flared to life, brightening the study as we entered. I shut the door behind us with a hasty click.
The room was so unlike the rest of the manor. The walls were all wooden paneling, dark and heavy. There was a gallery wall of botanical paintings. A massive desk in black walnut dominated the back of the room. Twin chairs of leather and wood sat poised in front of it. The rest of the study was lined with tall shelves, housing books, pressed flowers, and jars of specimens floating in liquids too murky to see through.
A cloying scent saturated the air.
Formaldehyde, I guessed distantly. With a touch of resin and decay.
“So many books,” I murmured, turning around to count them. “There must be hundreds of volumes here. How are we ever going to—”
“Here we are,” Julien announced, kneeling at the side of the desk. His fingers ran over an unnoticeable lip, picking at it.
Viktor and I watched as he grabbed a rose-gold letter openerfrom Gerard’s stationery set and used it to pop open a hidden compartment with ease.
“How did you know that was there?” I asked, stepping forward to see what the space contained.
“I don’t have many memories of Chauntilalie,” he admitted, leaning in to investigate. “But I do remember Papa hiding away a bottle of absinthe so Mother wouldn’t know. He let me take a sip of it.”
Viktor looked impressed. “Father gave you spirits? As achild?”
Julien’s nose wrinkled. “Vile concoction. It tasted of soured licorice. But it burned the memory in deep so I suppose I’m somewhat grateful for it.”
The first thing that came out of the hidden compartment was a bottle of liquor, a brilliant shade of green. Viktor immediately removed the cap and sniffed at it, then wandered over to the bar cart. Julien removed several leather dossiers and a thick journal, stuffed with loose papers.
“Ladies’ choice,” he said, spreading the finds across the desk.
I picked up the folder nearest me and settled into one of the armchairs. Viktor rejoined us, bringing over heavy crystal tumblers, filled nearly to the brim with the absinthe. He offered me the first, all but foisting it into my hand.
“Papa is going to notice that much missing,” Julien hissed, pushing his away. “And you’ve not even properly prepared it. There’s meant to be burnt sugar and water added.”
“It’s amazing you’ve spent so many years exiled from Chauntilalie and yet here you are, sounding just as arrogant as Father,” Viktor mused, grabbing at the journal. He flopped into the other chair, throwing his legs over its arm. “Bottoms up,” he instructedbefore throwing back a great swallow of the green spirits. Viktor glanced at me. “Oh, Ver. You’re not to be like old fussy Jules, are you?”
I brought the tumbler up. “It smells like stale perfume.”
Viktor took another slug, the glass now half empty. “And tastes like ambrosia. Why shouldn’t we drink like gods? Oh go on, Ver.”
Rolling my eyes, I took the smallest sip I could, wincing. Julien had been right about the taste. It was all anise and fennel but I found it dark and intoxicating.
“May we please focus on the task at hand?” Julien snipped. “The last thing we need is for Father to stroll in, catching us unaware and soused.”
Viktor winked and polished his whole tumbler off before opening the journal.
For a time, the room fell into silence as we read.
My ledger was full of loose papers. There were strange botanical renderings, labeled in words I almost knew but didn’t. I turned the paper sideways, trying to understand how the plant was meant to grow. There didn’t seem to be any roots or leaves.
“Fundus,” I murmured to myself. “Myometrium.”
