The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
Up, down. Up, down. To the Monet painting, back to the bay window seat, then back to the Monet. After pacing that route what must be a hundred times, I switch course. Left, right. Left, right. From the old English grandfather clock to the Venetian dresser.
If I was only visiting this room, I’d be swooning in delight at all of the beautiful antiques covering every square inch. But knowing I can’t leave, I can see it for what it really is: A gilded cage.
And this little bird needs to stretch its wings and escape before it loses its damn mind.
I’ve been locked in this museum for around five days. I’ve read every book Orna gave me—twice. I’ve tried on every outfit she bought me, and I’ve stood in front of the bathroom mirror, braiding my hair in every way possible. Hell, I’ve even started picking at the food that she brings four times a day. Not because I’m giving up my protest, but because I’m just so goddamn bored. It’s become somewhat of a twisted game, finding the balance between quieting the constant rumbling in my stomach and not making it obvious that I’ve eaten anything at all.
Mentally exhausted from pacing the same three floorboards, I flop back down on the window seat. The midday rays warm my face through the glass, trying to entice me outside.
I close my eyes and imagine what I’d be doing back at Stanford. If it is a weekend, maybe Nellie and I would be hiking The Dish trail, stopping at the top to drink wine coolers while looking out at the rolling hills of San Jose. If it’s a weekday, then we’d be in lectures, probably nursing a slight hangover, itching to get out in the sun.
A pang of guilt washes over me, bringing me back to the gilded museum with a thump. Not once does my little daydream include Sam.
Sam.
He must be going insane wondering what the hell has happened to me.
A familiar knock on the door pushes him, Nellie and wine coolers back in the box labeled real life in my mind. “Come in,” I say, hopping off the window seat and waiting expectantly for any type of stimulation.
Orna pushes through the door, a tray of croissants and orange juice in hand. She runs a surprised eye over me. “Wow, you look amazing, Poppy! That dress is beautiful on you.” I offer a polite smile and mutter some sort of thanks. I must admit, ninety-nine percent of the clothes Orna picked out for me are gorgeous. This Neiman Marcus summer dress fits like a glove, dipping in at my waist and falling past my thighs in floaty, ethereal fabric. Faced with another day of doing absolutely fuck all, I decided to get up, shower, spend an hour doing my makeup with the Sephora haul Orna also got for me, and actually get dressed in something that isn’t pajamas.
Orna sets down the tray and beams at me. “Honestly, you look like a model.”
It’s hard not to like Orna, and I have to keep reminding myself not to unravel in front of her. She may play the role of the worried housekeeper, keeping me fed, clothed, and mildly entertained with a handful of battered Harlequin novels, but those amber eyes are a constant reminder that she’s not to be trusted. She can flash me her dazzling smile when my sarcastic comments make her laugh, and she can knit her perfect eyebrows into concern when I’m moments from bursting into tears, but she’s still a Quinn. She still locks that door behind her the second she steps into the room, and she locks it against the moment she leaves.
But today, she’s my only hope.
“I want to go outside.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“I’m sorry, lovie, you know Lorcan wouldn’t—”
“Please,” I say, clasping my hands together. I’m one more “no” away from falling to my knees and praying to her like she’s God. “Please just ask him. Tell him I’m losing my goddamn mind in here.”
Those brows knit into concern again. “Fine,” she eventually mutters, “I’ll ask. But I’m not making any promises. You’ve seen firsthand how stubborn he can be.”
She disappears out of the room, locking it behind her, of course. I press my ear to the door, and I can hear her somewhere else in the building, having a one-way conversation in muffled tones.
I’m holding my breath when she comes back into the room, slipping her cell back into the pocket of her apron. “He says only if you eat.”
“Deal,” I say, not caring about the rest of the sentence lingering on her lips.
“And only for one hour, limited to the south gardens, and you have to have a chaperone.”
I groan, my eyes darting to the window at the beastly-looking men that patrol the perimeters of the gardens. Whatever the weather, they are always in all-black, with rifles slung across their beefy chests. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
I don’t care about my protest right now. My desperate need to get out of this gilded cage is two-fold. First, I’ll simply crawl up the walls if I have to spend another day locked in here. Second, I’m not going to find an escape route staring at the locked door for eighteen hours a day. I need to get on the ground, figure out where I am and how the hell I can get out of here.
“I’ll take your brunch outside,” Orna smiles, picking up the tray. “You can have it on the terrace.”
She steps aside to let me pass through the bedroom door. And it’s in that moment I realize the lock and key on this room means nothing. Her easy smile reminds me of the night I slashed Lorcan’s face and tried to escape. The sound of his lazy footsteps coming to get me. Like him, she isn’t worried about me trying to escape, because she knows that even if I get out of this door, there’ll be at least one more standing between me and freedom.
“After you,” she practically sings. The one and only time I’ve been out of this room (conscious, at least), it was pitch black. With the daylight streaming through the large window at the end of the hall, I can finally see what’s on the other side of the Museum. And the answer to that is nothing. A simple corridor lined with plush, white carpets and closed doors on either side. At the end is the staircase, leading down to the bottom floor. I take in every inch of the corridor as I walk down it, running my hands over the smooth oak banister, eyeing up every lock and knob on every door as I pass. The bottom floor leads to a spacious entrance hall, as plain as the floor above. It’s when I see the main door that my heart sinks.
“Retina recognition,” Orna says, coming up behind me. “Plus, a password that changes every goddamn time you try to leave.”
I stare at the steel contraption in front of me. Any trace of hope seeps from my body like a slow, painful bleed. It wouldn’t look out of place in a Bond villain’s lair.
“The password changes? Then how do you know the answer?”
Orna eyes me suspiciously for a split second, before deciding it’s safe to answer. “It’s always a question that only a Quinn would know. Or should know,” she laughs. “I’ve had to call Lorcan a few times to come and get me out of here when I can’t remember his mother’s birthday.”
I’m suddenly shocked at the thought of Lorcan having a mom. I knew his father was dead, but where his mom is never crossed my mind. I immediately picture a beautiful yet cruel woman, with the same piercing amber eyes that every Quinn has. “Does she live here?”
Orna flashes me an apologetic glance. “No, Nancy died years ago,” she says softly, passing me the tray of croissants and heading to the iPad-size screen next to the door. I watch as a laser scans over her eye. “I was too young to remember her, and Lorcan was only around five.” After a pause, she adds, “Cancer.”
I take in this small slither of information as she taps away on the on-screen keyboard. I hate the pang of sadness that shoots through my growling stomach. I know how it feels to mourn someone that is such a large part of you, but you don’t even remember meeting. It’s a strange, empty void that is impossible to fill.
“I’m so sorry,” I find myself muttering. But my feeble words are lost in the hiss of the door’s hydraulics coming to life. It heaves open, revealing a wide stretch of grass and sunshine.
The fresh air hits me immediately, filled with freshly cut grass and the warmth from the sun. “Oh my god, thank you,” I murmur, closing my eyes and turning my face up to the sun. It’s crazy what we take for granted until it’s snatched away from you.
“Let’s get you fed,” Orna says, nodding to the patio area to the side of the house. While she sets down the tray, I step away from the house and look back up at it, taking in the exterior of my cage.
It’s pretty, yet shockingly ordinary. Like the simple, white corridors and looming steel door, it doesn’t match the gaudy aesthetic of the bedroom I’ve been locked in.
I sink into the swinging love seat under the veranda, wolfing down three croissants while Orna makes small talk. I’m only half-listening; most of my attention is on the beautiful, buttery taste of food, and the other is scanning my surroundings for any sign of an escape route. But from the patio I can’t see much, it’s the same view from the bedroom but from a slightly different angle. Long stretches of perfectly manicured grass that meets towering hedge walls somewhere in the distance.
“Need anything else to eat?” Orna brings me back with a question. “You must be literally starving.”
“No, no,” I say, dusting the crumbs away from my mouth. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to stretch my legs.”
“Sure. Let me find you a chaperone. I’d love to come with you, but I have way too much work to do, I’m afraid.”
She steps out from under the shade, looking to the left of the building. She waves, presumably at someone, and then beckons them over. “Cillian will give you a tour of the grounds,” she says, smiling at someone that hasn’t come into view yet. “He actually works in the gardens in his spare time too. Don’t try to outsmart him with rose varieties, you’ll definitely lose.”
She turns back to me, a satisfied smile on her face. “Enjoy yourself, Poppy. I’ll be back in about an hour, okay?”
I nod, rising to my feet. “Thanks, Orna. I really appreciate—”
We’re interrupted by the crackling sound. It’s coming from the radio clipped to the waist of her jeans. She flashes me an apologetic smile and mouths sorry, before lifting it to her lips and throwing me a wave over her shoulder as she disappears around the corner.
I step out into the sun, looking to the left of the house. Immediately, I see who Orna was beckoning over. A tall, tanned man with a mop of dark hair is striding towards the house. He’s not dressed like the other henchmen that line the perimeters of the garden, instead, he’s in Nike shorts, running sneakers, and a wife-beater tank.
When he’s only a few feet away, I offer him a small, awkward wave, one that he doesn’t reciprocate.
Of course. Orna might be pleasant enough, but that personality trait probably doesn’t extend to anyone else who lives or works here. Lorcan’s men are probably used to sniping enemies from their watchtowers, not looking after their boss’s latest keepsake. And judging by the way this one is dressed, he’s not meant to be working today at all.
That’s fine. I’m not looking for good company, I’m looking for an escape route. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and keeps his distance, I couldn’t care less what he thinks of me.
He’s less than a foot away from me now when a feeling of familiarity washes over me. Was he at the restaurant when I was kidnapped?
No, I muse to myself. None of those men were that young, and this guy seems to be around my age. He probably passes by the museum window a few times a day on patrol. That’s how I recognize him.
But there’s a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me I’m wrong. It’s in the way he walks—stomps, across the grass to meet me.
The realization soccer punches me in my chest. But he beats me to it.
“Poppy Murphy,” he says, only inches from me now. His voice is low and he’s only talking out of the side of his mouth, like he’s concerned about who will hear. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I can’t breathe. “It’s you…” I just about manage, as my ears ring from shock.
It’s the boy with the Doc Martens from the funeral.