Ruling with a New Frame novel · Chapter 10 of 24

Chapter 10: The Vault

The library was a black cave of books, and the only light was Felix's flashlight.

It made a little yellow circle on the floor and shook at the edges.

"I don't like this," he whispered.

"You don't have to like it," I said. "You only have to hold the light."

The great stone hearth stood at the far end, tall enough for a man to walk into.

Above it, a carved tree grew out of the mantel, with eleven leaves picked out in worn stone.

Every part of the child's memory pointed at it.

I dragged a footstool across the floor and climbed up.

The ring in my hand looked enormous.

I put my fingers on the carved trunk.

I felt a small round hollow, rubbed smooth by a hundred years of thumbs.

It was the same size as the seal.

I pressed the ring into it.

Nothing happened.

"Turn it," whispered Felix. "You have to turn it. In movies you turn it."

I turned it a quarter to the right.

Something deep inside the wall clicked.

The back of the hearth swung inward on a slow, grinding hinge, and a breath of stale cold air blew out over our feet.

Felix said a word I am sure his mother had never taught him.

A narrow stair went down into the dark.

I took the flashlight from his hand.

"Stay at the top," I said. "If you hear a car, whistle."

"I can't whistle."

"Then shout."

I went down alone, one hand on the wet stone wall, counting the steps.

Twenty-two.

At the bottom lay a round room, no bigger than a carriage.

The ceiling was low, the floor was flagstone, and the walls were lined with iron shelves holding rolled papers and tin boxes.

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