“Silly me. Just assumed the giant room with the endless bookshelves was a library.”
“The nineteenth-century Dunleavys in particular were markedly bookish. I think rather a lot of them would have been scholars if they hadn’t been required to run the estate. They amassed quite a collection. Unfortunately, most of it’s botany. Terribly dull. Ah, here we are.”
Simultaneously, Jamie pushed open a heavy wooden door and pulled me through it. A gasp of surprise escaped my lips.
It was like stepping into a jewel box. Tomes of every imaginable color climbed the walls, the gold leaf on their spines glinting in the firelight. The room was tiny, but so tall I wondered if it took up two stories. There was, of course, another rolling ladder, and the only wall space not filled with books was taken up by an enormous fireplace. Who the hell kept all these fires going? Oh, right, the staff.
Apart from several squashy leather chairs and one particularly squashy leather love seat, the only furniture in the room was a giant oak desk. I hopped up onto it, swinging my feet back and forth.
“Hmmm.” Jamie stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. “I have…a feeling.” He fell to his knees and began knocking on the floor, pressing one ear to the boards. “Sounds a bit…different…hollow, perhaps…could be something…right about…here!” He pulled up one corner of an Oriental rug with a flourish, revealing a trapdoor.
“You’re joking.” I slid off the desk. It was definitely a trapdoor. I’d never seen one in real life, but there was no mistaking it. There was even a little handle to pull it up by.
“Where trapdoors are concerned, I never joke. Well, hardly ever,” he amended. “If I could think of a really brilliant pun involving trapdoors, I would simply have to succumb.”
“You knew that was there the whole time!”
“How dare you malign my sleuthing abilities!” Jamie cried. “Madam, you have cut me to the quick! Perhaps I am simply preternaturally gifted at finding trapdoors. Did you consider that possibility?”
“I considered it. But I also considered the possibility that you’re full of crap.”
“A definite possibility.” He grinned. “Shall we?”
“It feels less mysterious now that I know it was a premeditated trapdoor,” I grumbled.
“The premeditated trapdoor,” Jamie mused.
“That sounds like a bad Nancy Drew book.”
“Oh, bother Nancy Drew. It’s my title, not hers. I’d read a book called The Premeditated Trapdoor. Perhaps I should write one.”
“First of all, I came up with that title. Technically. And second of all, I think the premeditated aspect takes all the mystery out of it. Doesn’t sound like much of a page-turner to me.”
“The door may be premeditated, but the destination is not.” Jamie tapped the side of his nose. I’d heard the word “premeditated” so many times in the last couple minutes it had lost all meaning. He threaded his fingers through the small silver ring and pulled, lifting the wooden door aloft until it swung open to reveal the top of a flight of stairs.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“Ladies first.”
I peered down the hole, then looked back up at Jamie.
“Are you frightened?” he asked kindly.
“No!” All I’d seen were a couple stairs descending into black nothingness. What could possibly be frightening about that?
“Shall I go first? Check for monsters, bogeymen, that sort of thing?”
“I think I can handle a bogeyman.” I repeated it back the way Jamie had said it, bogeyman, not boogeyman.
I took a deep breath and planted my foot firmly on the top step. Satisfyingly sturdy. All right, then.
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,” Jamie recited.
“Is that part of The Premeditated Trapdoor?” Down another step. I still couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs.
“Hardly. It’s Poe. Move along, then, Dylan.”
“Yeah, yeah, nevermore.” Step. Step. “I’m going.”
I reached a hand out into the darkness until I connected with the wall, trailing my fingers along it in the absence of a railing. Maybe lack of railing was standard trapdoor operating procedure, but I could have used one right about now. Carefully, I moved down, one foot in front of the other, until there were no more steps. The bottom. I inched forward, until suddenly the minimal light source was extinguished.
“Jamie!” I gasped. This was a kind of darkness I hadn’t experienced since Heaven and I accidentally ended up in the basement during the church lock-in.
“Quite all right, Dylan?”
“No! Why did you close the door?”
“I didn’t want to alert the others to the existence of the trapdoor.”
“I’m sure if you know about it, the people who actually live here know about it,” I grumbled. “What if we get trapped down here?”
“Impossible. We’ll simply nip back up and push the door open. Easy.”
“If we don’t break our necks stumbling around in the dark first.” I reached a hand out in front of me. “Exploring a black hole isn’t really that exciting.”
“If only we had a torch.”
“A torch? What is this, Frankenstein?”
“Torches aren’t merely for monsters, Dylan.…Just a moment…” I heard footsteps and the rustle of fabric. “Ah, here it is.” A soft click, and a beam of artificial light pierced the gloom. “A torch.”
“A flashlight,” I responded. For the first time, I could see the low stone ceiling and narrow walls. It reminded me of when Hugh Jackman dragged that guy through a sewer in Les Mis, which was a mostly unremarkable movie, except for the fact that it inspired Heaven to cut all her hair off. Which I thought was totally bizarre, because who wants to look like a dead, toothless prostitute? Of course, Heaven ended up looking totally stunning, like Lupita Nyong’o. If I cut all my hair off, I would definitely look like a dead, toothless prostitute. Actually, I’d probably just look like a boy. “Did you stash that flashlight down here?”
“The Premeditated Torch is, naturally, the follow-up to the smash best seller The Premeditated Trapdoor.”
“That is seriously the worst idea for a book series I’ve ever heard.”
“Nonsense. Dashing British hero and his plucky American lady sidekick explore uncharted territory? It’s brilliant.”
“Plucky?” Eh, I’d been called worse. “And this territory has already been charted. By you.”
“But it’s uncharted for you, my plucky American lady sidekick.” I turned to see him grinning at my side. “You can hold the torch, if you’d like.”
“How benevolent of you.” I grabbed the flashlight. “Guess that makes you the sidekick now.”
“Lead on, then.”
I pointed the beam of light straight ahead, seeing nothing but more Hugh Jackman sewer tunnel. It was crazy to think that we were wandering in this passage beneath the castle while everyone else just walked around oblivious above us. I wondered how many other people knew it existed. Probably everyone. But it was nice to at least pretend that I had found somewhere secret to hide from TRC. Even if that somewhere was a damp, airless tunnel. At the end of that hall, we came to a fork—the passageway seemed to continue endlessly in each direction.
“How long does this go on for?” I marveled.
“The tunnel system is quite extensive. I believe it goes beneath the entire main building, and may connect to some of the outer buildings. I’m honestly not certain.”
“That’s crazy.” I shook my head. “Why all the secret passageways?”
“It’s only a theory, but the bulk of the estate was built during a time of political upheaval. Perhaps it was an escape system.”
“Huh. Which way?”
“Up to you.”
I pointed the flashlight to the left, to the right, to the—
“Jamie,” I whispered. “There’s something glowing down there.”
“Turn off the
torch.”
I did. In the darkness, it was easy to see a faint blue-white light to the left.
“Magic,” I whispered.
“Sorry?”
“What? Um, nothing!” Obviously, it wasn’t magic. Obviously. “We have to check that out, right?”
“I would expect nothing less from the intrepid heroes of The Premeditated Trapdoor!”
“You’ve gotta let that go,” I groaned. I turned to the left, switching the flashlight back on and swinging it in front of me.
“Ow!”
“Dusty?” I asked curiously. The flashlight’s beam illuminated my sister, squatting in front of a shoe box with her iPhone clutched in her hand.
“I said, ow! Honest, Dilly, you’re shining that thing right in my eyes.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I pointed it at the ground. Dusty blinked, shaking her head. “What are you doing down here?”
“Facebook. For some reason my phone only connects to the Internet down here if I squat real low. Makes no damn sense.”
Ah. Probably scrolling through her bazillion friends and admiring her selfie collection. Lest she forget even for, like, twenty minutes how popular she was.
“Why are you Facebooking in a dark tunnel?”
“I hid a phone down here. You know TRC doesn’t want us to have any kind of contact with the outside world. Spoilers.”
“Yeah, God forbid it leak on the Internet what your color scheme is.” I rolled my eyes. “America would be devastated.”
“I don’t make the rules, Dylan.” She dropped the phone back in the shoe box at her feet.
“No, you just break them.”
“What do you want from me, Dyl?” Dusty jammed the lid back on the box with more force than was necessary, then rose to face me, eyes flashing. “I’m stupid if I go along with the show; now you’re givin’ me grief for goin’ against it. Which is it? You can’t have it both ways.”
“I was just—God, Dusty, it was just a joke.” Was she going to cry? It was kind of hard to tell in this light, but it looked like she was turning red like she did when she was going to really cry, not in the fake way she cried when her old boyfriend got the wrong flowers for prom, or when she was crowned Miss Mississippi. “Sorry, okay?”
“Whatever.” She tapped her fingers briskly beneath her eyes, swiping away any eyeliner smudges. Because of course she couldn’t look less than perfect for one single second. “I’m gettin’ enough crap today, and I don’t need any more from you.”
“Are you feeling better, then?” Jamie asked solicitously. Oops. I kind of forgot he was there. Something about spending too much time with Dusty turned me into an obnoxious eight-year-old all over again.
“Oh. Yes, I’m all right. Just a bit of a tummy bug. It’s the food y’all eat here. No offense, Jamie.”
“None taken.” He shrugged. “Britain’s culinary foibles are a long-standing punch line.”
“Not anymore,” I argued. “Think of all the great British chefs. Jamie Oliver. Gordon Ramsay. Nigella Lawson.”
“Thank you, Food Network,” Dusty snapped. “The food’s heavy. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Yeah, because we never eat butter. In Mississippi.”
“Do you have to argue with every single little thing I say?” Dusty heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“Is Mississippi particularly known for its butter?” Jamie asked politely, ignoring the daggers I was glaring at Dusty.
“Um, no, not particularly,” I admitted. “But the South is kind of notorious for drowning everything in butter. Buttered biscuits. Buttery grits. Butter, well, everything.”
“Ah, I see. Like Britain’s much-maligned culinary reputation. A sort of cultural joke that might not always be accurate.”
“Exactly.” Dusty jumped in. “Mama always cooked everything in Pam.”
“Pam?” Jamie repeated curiously.
“It’s a fat-free cooking spray,” I explained. “Not important. Don’t you have a tour to be getting back to?”
“Don’t you?” Dusty replied pointedly. “I’m sorry. Were you two tryin’ to be…alone? Together?”
“Dusty!” I shrieked. “Shut up!” I could feel my face getting hot. And then hotter still, as I realized I had just shrieked in what probably sounded like repulsion to Jamie, but was actually just embarrassment. Oh God, this day…just…had…to…end. At least I’d proved that it was scientifically impossible for a human being to spontaneously combust from mortification. Otherwise I would have been long dead.
“We were simply exploring the castle,” Jamie said smoothly, as if my outburst hadn’t happened. Dusty, on the other hand, was sporting an annoying expression of amusement. “Looking for trapdoors, secret passages, that sort of thing. As you can see, we succeeded admirably. As did you, apparently.”
“Apparently.” She shrugged. “Fine, let’s get out of this cave. I think I can handle Her Royal Pain in the Ass again.”
I snorted. Dusty was so much more fun when she wasn’t pretending to be perfect.
“Walk, Dylan. You’ve got the flashlight.”
Never mind. She was just bossy and annoying. Sighing, I turned back the way we’d come.
“So, Jamie, I don’t know if she’s told you, but Dilly’s quite the track star.” I looked behind me. Dusty had threaded her arm through Jamie’s.
“It’s cross-country,” I muttered grumpily. “It’s different. I’m a distance runner. I don’t hop over things.”
“Yes, she’s quite sporty,” Dusty cooed. “You could never tell it by the way she slouches and eats like a hog, but she’s a real little athlete.” There was nothing more annoying than Dusty in full-on Southern-belle mode. Also, what was her game here? I couldn’t tell. Was she trying to sell him on me, or scare away the only friend I had in this godforsaken frozen chunk of rock?
Whatever it was, she was up to something, and I didn’t like it.
My days at Dunyvaig took on a strange, dreamlike quality. Since I was deprived of the clock and calendar on my phone, everything felt timeless. With no TV, no phone, and nothing to do, I spent most days roaming aimlessly around the castle, eating as much free food as was humanly possible and having contests with Jamie to see who could throw more peanuts into Kit’s open mouth when he passed out on the couch for his daily afternoon nap. I was shocked to discover a whole week had passed without me realizing it. All those peanut tosses had blurred together. Cabin—uh, castle—fever setting in after seven days of nothing, I laced up my sneakers, pushed open the heavy front doors, and set out for a run.
With each footfall on the ground, I could feel my head getting clearer. Everything was always better when my arms were pumping, my heart was beating quickly, and my breath was puffing white in short, sharp bursts. Well, my breath didn’t normally puff white when I ran, but here, in the cool December air, I was using my winter gear for the first time since that freak cold snap sophomore year. And it felt good.
Even better, I had officially outrun the Reality Channel. The cameraman lasted for about seven minutes before concluding he had enough boring B-roll of me and then wheezing his way back toward the house. Finally, there was nothing staring at me with its giant, eyelike lens. Well, except for the quails. But they had two small beady eyes. And they didn’t do anything except chortle at me grumpily as I ran past them. But really, it was their fault for sleeping in the road.
They were cute, though, all soft and brown, folded into little bundles like footballs nestling in the tire tracks. Every once in a while, I’d see the movement of a quail pecking its way through the forest that lined either side of the road. Quails. Kinda charming. Who knew?
I rounded a bend, coming out of the forested area into an open field filled with grazing sheep. In the distance sat three small cottages with thatched roofs, smoke puffing jovially out of their chimneys. Had I run off the grounds? Or was this all still part of the estate? If so, it was massive. Way bigger than I’d ever imagined.
Time to turn back. The last thing I want
ed to do was get lost out here before it got super dark and I ended up roaming the moors all night long. With my luck, I’d run straight into the hound of the Baskervilles.
A roaring behind me assaulted my ears, sending my heart rate sky-high. The hound! I sped up, but turned to look behind me. Come on, Dylan. Obviously, it wasn’t a hound. It was a green, muddy Range Rover that somehow appeared to be wider than the narrow dirt road it was traveling on. My foot caught on something and sent me sprawling forward. I landed heavily in the gravel and dirt, my knees and wrists throbbing with pain. I’d forgotten the number one rule of cross-country: Watch your feet—look where you’re going. Don’t turn around to check behind you for the hound of the Baskervilles. Well, I’d added that last part, but it definitely applied.
I’d landed squarely on my belly in a Dylan-size puddle. I rolled over and tried to pull my sodden sweatshirt away from my flesh, only to be rewarded by a sucking sound and the unpleasant heft of wet cotton.
The truck roared by, soaking me with a tsunami of brown water. With one chipper “Sorry, love!” in parting, my assailant disappeared. Gingerly, I pushed myself back up to standing, brushing a few bits of gravel off my shaking knees. I swiped the mud from my eyes and mouth with an equally muddy sleeve. It was time to head back to Dunyvaig and hope that today, the water in the ancient pipes was warmer than the air, because I was in desperate need of a shower.
Turning, I put one muddy sneaker in front of the other. After a few experimental jogs, I came to a stop—running in heavy, wet, dirty cotton was torture. This settled it—I was never doing one of those mud run things.
The wind whistled down the back of my neck, freezing me in my soggy sweatshirt. With each damp step my feet felt heavier, my limbs colder, and the castle farther and farther away. Why had I run so far? At this rate there was no way I’d make it back before it got dark out. And then I’d definitely get eaten by a hound.
Far too many agonizing minutes later, one of those thatch-roofed cottages appeared around a bend. There was no smoke coming out of this one’s chimney, but maybe it was heated somehow. At this point I would have danced merrily into the flames of hell for a chance to warm up.
Prince in Disguise Page 6