The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

by S E Holmes

  “So my mother is dead, then?” he asked softly. “Not at a commune or whatever bullshit the judge spun down the years?”

  I couldn’t find the right words. “Don’t be hard on him, Vee.” I stretched over to squeeze his forearm, but he jerked it from the table to put distance between us. “He did the best he could.”

  “How can you say that?” he snapped. Smith stood abruptly. “Lying and womanising and being an absent, generally crap father were his best? How did she die? Was he responsible?”

  “No.” At least, I didn’t think so. Mrs Paget materialised in the doorframe. “Now isn’t the best time, Mrs Paget.”

  “Now is always the best time.” She beckoned for us to follow.

  I thought Vee might ignore her and stomp off to our room. Instead, keeping several steps in front of me, so there was no chance for empty displays of sympathy or compassion for the judge, he pursued her doggedly towards our wing of the warehouse. Meanwhile, I lagged at the rear, contemplating the possibility of exploding from tension. Splattered ‘me’ all over the walls would provide Mrs Paget with an awful mess to tidy up. A hysterical giggle bubbled up my throat. Strangely, she led us through Bea’s bedroom to her study.

  “Where are the chronologies? My Family Tree? It’s all gone.”

  The shelves that contained the little books detailing members of the Trinity were empty. The tapestry of my ancestry had vanished.

  Mrs Paget reached to pat my hand, but thought better of it. “Nothing escapes time, Winnie.” This, coming from someone who’d outlived Methuselah. “Our lives are but a strike of the match. We must burn as brightly as we can, before we return to ash and stardust.”

  Smithy’s mother had burned too brightly; his father unable to cope with the fact his son seemed destined for the same. A door previously concealed behind the tapestry held an ornate key in its lock. I didn’t care where it led, this newly barren place reflecting my shattered psyche.

  Mrs Paget turned the key, letting the door swung ajar. She herded us into a small, gloomy space. Lingering in the doorway, the light surrounded her from behind so that she seemed a fitting embodiment of flame. “You have the night. It is the only gift we can promise.” She closed the door and darkness fell.

  “Locking us in a cupboard is a gift?” I shuffled around, attempting to put space between myself and Smithy.

  “That was my foot, Bear.” He rattled the doorknob.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. I must have a t-shirt printed boldly with the word, so I could cut to the chase by pointing. And spare everyone breath squandered on apologies.

  A row of candles set in high sconces burst awake. We were in a skinny alley of aged sandstone that stretched briefly, until stone steps ascended, a view of their destination blocked by the low ceiling. The sweet aroma of chrism balm permeated.

  I dared a glance at Smithy, one pace ahead. As if aware, he swivelled to appraise my face. He stepped close. I opened my mouth to spew more excuses, to try and clarify his father’s motivations, wishing more than anything I could ease a single person’s hurt in this world of sorrow. Silently, he placed his forefinger across my lips. The heat in his gaze triggered a scorching blush that seemed to spread up my body from my very toes.

  “It’s just you and me in here, Bear. No Trinity. No death. No witch. No bullshit. Just for one night. Promise?”

  I nodded. “I promise.”

  “Good. Let’s go exploring.”

  Taking my hand, we headed deeper inside the attic. An ambient rectangle flickered at the top of a short, steep staircase, which opened out into a verdant canopy of inconceivable beauty. I had often tried to guess the location of Mrs Paget’s greenhouse. My home was usually packed with exotic blooms. Not in my most wondrous dreams would I have chosen the roof.

  Her garden was astonishing. The perfect hermetically sealed environment. A slim stone path wound through foliage heavy with brightly coloured flowers of endless variety. Their scents mingled on the air in a patchwork of perfumes. Tiny lights in rainbow hues shimmered from the greenery, with a thousand glittering pinpoints sparkling overhead. The true Milky Way shone through the leaves, blurred by a transparency that formed the roof. Bright butterflies frolicked before our startled eyes and crickets chirped, quietening as we neared.

  “I’ve fallen through the looking glass into the Garden of Eden.”

  Smithy was speechless. The path brought us to a corner glade – a cosy niche of thick grass hemmed in by high shrubs with tiny stellate blossoms of myriad shades. Water tinkled from a fountain somewhere nearby. and statues of nymphs set in the garden held lit braziers. On a rug in the centre of this green oasis lay a picnic basket. A familiar aroma caught my attention, blowing from the path which angled into a shadowy tunnel of plants. I turned to follow the tang of cinnamon and berries.

  “Where are you going? This is where we’re supposed to be.”

  “Since when have you ever done anything we’re supposed to, Smith?”

  He tagged along grudgingly. The passageway ended in a square grotto, which I estimated was the corner opposite the picnic site. It had a floor of mossy sandstone and vines crisscrossed a trellis to create an opaque ceiling. Around the perimeter of this space sat five huge stainless-steel vats with pressure gauges and curly tubing. Old-fashioned barrels were stacked neatly on their sides under benches near each one. A single tapped barrel sat on every bench and next to it, stoppered bottles and a silver tasting goblet.

  “The distillery. I knew I could smell cinnaber.”

  Smithy inhaled slowly. “Also peppermint and menthol – the medicine Fortescue gave Bea in the sparring ring. What’s in the other three?”

  “Let’s see.”

  By the tasting glass on the middle barrel, stood a white card, covered in Mrs Paget’s shaky writing. It read:

  Dearest Ones,

  Inquisitiveness deserves reward. The basket. Do not linger here overlong. The night slips by.

  Forever Love.

  “They’re always one step ahead.”

  “Look, Smithy. There are tags on the tubing.”

  He reached up and straightened the tag for a better view. “This one says: Soothing allayver, lightens mental burden. Mild euphoric. Warning: Excess causes unjustifiable optimism and complacency. Overdose: Paralytic trance, drooling, unresponsiveness.”

  “Vanilla and honey.”

  We moved back to the first vat. “Enduring inviger, strength and stamina for the fatigued. Stimulant. Warning: Excess causes overexertion and unwarranted confidence in physical skill. Overdose: Death due to exhaustion.”

  “Orange and bergamot.”

  “Healing vitaver, alleviates non-fatal wounds. Restorative. Warning: Excess incites carelessness. Overdose: death due to aggravation of existing injury, internal bleeding, dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, heart failure. Fortescue’s peppermint.”

  Cinnaber sat on the other side of allayver. “Enlightening cinnaber, clarity of thought. Psychotropic. Warning: Excess causes confusion or amnesia. Overdose: seizure and muscular rigidity. Yikes, Bear, these are all pretty dangerous.”

  “What about the last one?”

  “Sedating somnamber. The label cuts straight to the chase,” noted Smithy. “Warning: Strong Narcoleptic. Excess: Deep coma. Overdose: Death.”

  “Aniseed.”

  “Sneaking booze from this stash really ups the ante. Curiosity satisfied?”

  “For this, maybe. But I am curious about other things.”

  “Oh, are you just?”

  Smirking, he captured my hand again and we ambled back to the picnic blanket, a different sort of tension blossoming between us. The grass beneath the cashmere rug was dense and springy and I longed to lie down and let sleep take me. Given my nightmares, such peace was a long shot. Instead, I sat stiffly next to Smithy as he rifled the basket. I’d never been more jumpy around him. He worked to portray a casual air – I could tell.

  “Handmade chocolates. Bea made good on her promise.”

  I l
eaned over Smith and peeked into the basket. My skin blazed as it brushed his and my pulse accelerated. Two small crystal bottles, string-tied labels announcing our names, competed with an assortment of the most delectable chocolates artfully arrayed on lace.

  “Open up.” Smithy popped one into my mouth. The velvety chocolate cracked apart and its luscious creamy centre flooded my tastebuds.

  “Oh, yummy. This is the most scrumptious thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  Smith agreed enthusiastically through a mouthful. Memories of Bea’s life sprang to mind.

  “She tried so many hobbies after her husband died, but none of them filled the void. She can play the cello, is a champion fencer and skilled at Japanese stick-fighting, Kendo. She took decades to complete the tapestries in Fortescue’s room, is an expert chef at French cuisine—”

  “I’d like to see that,” he said wryly.

  “You’ve got nothing to complain about. Since you’ve been here, it’s been a junk-food binge. Anyway, before her husband was killed at the end of the Thirty Years war, she was a renowned healer and midwife. They wanted to have her hanged as a witch, but could never catch her. How’s that for irony?” I was babbling. I couldn’t help it: nerves were getting the better of me.

  Smith peered at me, dumbfounded. He uncorked my vial with a flick of his thumb and offered me a sip – it too was delicious. I immediately felt somehow … weightless. He took a gulp from his own bottle.

  “Her husband, Vincent, adored her long auburn hair and flawless complexion.”

  “You got all that from a little chocolate? You should steer clear of supersize deals or you’ll give me the history of the universe.”

  “Not from the chocolate, nitwit. When Bea touched me.”

  Smithy placed another chocolate in my mouth and angled his head with the familiar inquisitive look. “What happens when you touch me?”

  A bomb detonates, my skin tingles, and I get the overwhelming urge to rip your clothes off and explore anatomy the nuns from one of my worst schools would punish me severely for even naming! I tongued syrup from my lips.

  “Rare and blissful silence.”

  I took another swig of allayver and primly cleared my throat. Warmth and happiness penetrated my every pore. It was impossible to conjure a hint of worry or remember unpleasantness. Smith fed me more chocolate, his eyes on my mouth. I reached over and slowly traced the contours of his chest through his shirt. The material was flimsy, but still in the way, so I slipped my hands down around his waist and bunched it up his back and over his head. He blinked at me in surprise when I tossed the shirt beyond his reach. Stroking his bare skin, I followed the muscles down his spine.

  “This stuff is good,” I said, more than a little winded.

  He gently pushed me horizontal and lay propped on an elbow, caressing my face, his body radiating heat. “It’s really hard for you. I wish I could make it better.”

  He clearly aimed for sombre concern, but couldn’t hide a grin in response to the accidental double-meaning. We burst into laughter, rolling together. My eyes went wide when he pressed against me and I discovered the insinuation was no idle joke. Smithy’s fingers played along my collarbone, sliding the pesky strap of my singlet out of the way.

  I couldn’t contain myself. “Proving the point?”

  Even as a new round of laughter threatened to unhinge us, my lips crushed his and I knew this time we didn’t have to hold back. We kissed with blissful abandon, passionately at first, in a tangle of arms and legs, gradually opening our eyes and slowing to tender. I felt I could fall into those eyes and never be happier. After several breathless moments, I paused and tried to convey the need that consumed me.

  “You can make me feel better.”

  “The question is, how much?”

  “Show me,” I teased.

  Without looking away, he groped in the picnic basket and plucked out another chocolate. Cracking it between his teeth, he very deliberately oozed the liquid centre over my shoulder.

  “Oops, I’ve gone and made a mess. I should clean it up.” His tongue traced electric spirals across my skin, while I reclined and wallowed in sensual overload. The contrast between the cool, springy grass and the tautness of his muscles pressing the length of me, added lovely friction as I moved against him.

  “You’ll get chocolate on your top,” he wheezed, finally coming up for air.

  “Take it off.”

  “Are you sure, Winnie?”

  “Never more so. I can’t remember ever being young. Remind me.”

  “Umm,” he said awkwardly. My eyes snapped open, my special moment threatened. “I didn’t have a chance to, you know, be prepared.”

  I sighed. Would there ever come a time when the witch didn’t contaminate everything I did? “Keepers are barren.”

  He propped up again on an elbow, a storm crinkling his brow. “What?”

  “No Trinity.”

  “But—”

  “No. Trinity. Drink up!”

  I patted to retrieve my little vial next to me on the rug, toasting him without rising, and guzzled the rest. Discarding the bottle, I lay back in my best rendition of seductive and gradually dragged my singlet off to reveal my lacy pink bra, and bareness down to where my draw-string pyjamas sat beneath my navel. He drank in the view, desire softening his troubled features. For once I didn’t feel embarrassed or clumsy.

  Maybe the potion encouraged confidence, and tomorrow my wanton behaviour would make me cringe. But right now, I embraced my newfound brazen attitude. And cherished the realisation that a delicious combination of intoxication and opportunity were precisely the way many teens got together in the real world. I knew we’d only have this small window of peace before who knew what. Our attraction ignited, sparkling through my flesh.

  “Oh,” he stuttered, shaking his head in mock outrage. “Very crafty. You don’t play fair.”

  “How much better do you think you can make me feel?” I challenged, shimmying closer.

  He positioned himself so we were skin to skin. Caressing along my jaw with a dreamy expression, he murmured, “As you insist, Winsome. I’ll show you.”

  And so he did … And just for a moment, I wanted for nothing else.

  Twenty-Two

  Hud sprawled across Bickles and Andie’s humungous four-poster bed. The other two occupied leather chairs at an ornate desk across the room, cluttered with their electronic equipment. They’d been given burn phones to contact loved ones and offer reassurances, which Fortescue had recently taken to destroy in the warehouse furnace. Bea didn’t want to worry their families. Daniel’s motives were practical: quash any reason for them to come searching.

  “What a day. What fairytale did you spin your brothers, Bickles?”

  “Told them I had an international conference to attend and I was backpacking with Andie afterwards. Didn’t need anything more elaborate, the boys pretty much let me be.”

  “I copped an earful from Mother and Father. They’re freaking out about the terrace and worried that traipsing about Europe with Bickles will ruin my reputation. I’m not sure what they thought I did all those years at MIT. It’s not like uni is a convent.”

  Bickles scowled on mention of Andie’s romantic history, then turned to Hud. “Did you manage to get hold of Astrid?”

  “Gave Mum a version of the spongy truth. Although, she sounded preoccupied. I could hear Bernie in the background whinging about bugs the size of pterodactyls.”

  “The spongy truth?”

  “Yeah, looks alright on the surface, but you wouldn’t want to press too hard before the facts seep out. Fortescue called it the ‘dissembler’s refuge’.”

  “He and Bea sure have a way with words. Do you reckon I’ll become more literate by osmosis?”

  “Well, it hasn’t happened so far, and you’ve been hanging with me for ages.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve learned everything you know, Hud. Precisely zip,” Bickles grinned.

  Hud feigned a belly laugh
. “Anyway, I told Mum I was taking a sabbatical to investigate methods of growing my Orchid, before possibly heading to Borneo. I’ve been talking about doing it for a while, so it seems probable. Who’d have thought Mrs Paget has a mean green thumb and it’s kind of close to the truth?”

  “They’re all pretty amazing. Especially for people alive when the wheel was invented.”

  “Bear’s not having such a hot time though, is she?” Andie asked quietly. “Bea speculates that a direct connection to the other Keepers will help her find the lost articles.”

  “So she’s going to Louisiana tomorrow?”

  It was futile to contradict the truth about Bear’s state, which made the trip to America all the more risky. Hud didn’t understand what was happening to her, but it didn’t seem she’d gained any advantages in the Ritual – more a dead albatross dragging her down. And her suffering hobbled Vee as well. Maybe it was all a test of their mettle?

  “First thing.” Andie sighed. “I guess we may as well turn in. Big day and all that.”

  Bickles changed the subject. “Any idea on when the fights are going to be held?”

  “Probably tomorrow night.” It was only 10 pm and Hud wasn’t tired in the least. “Don’t you think we should talk about the loss of Buzz? If that weedy Quint rodent has half a clue about your field, won’t that mean your poor little bee lights a path to our door?”

  “He can snoop around the company all he likes. They’ll give him nothing. I’m more worried about my attempt to retrieve our wasp. Security will be jumpy what with today’s mystery break in, and mine and Ty’s sudden absence from work on a flimsy justification.”

  There was a soft tap at the door. The trio looked at each other, startled.

  “Come in,” Hud called.

  Mrs Paget pushed a tea-trolley laden with hairdressing implements into the room. Fortescue entered behind her, dragging a stool on rollers, his other arm sporting a duffle bag. He spread a large plastic sheet over the floor and positioned the stool in the middle, dumping the bag by Andie’s bed. Mrs Paget pointed at Hud with a mischievous look and hooked a finger for him to be seated.