The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

“Hate me.”

It’s been seven days since those two poisonous words slid from Lorcan’s lips. Seven days since I’ve seen or heard from him.

Numb, I stared at the cavernous ceiling of his bedroom until the rain died down and the sun shone through the curtains. Waiting for him to return, but he never did. The timid knock on the door belonged to Orna, and when she peeked her head into the room, her sheepish smile and offer to let me back into the museum made me feel like a fool.

There’s been a large shift at the Quinn estate in the last seven days too. The grounds feel eerily quiet, even though the security detail has doubled. Now, I can’t glance out of the window without seeing bulletproof vests and rifles and balaclavas. Hell, there’s even one of them permanently stationed outside the museum now. I have to wiggle past him with an apologetic smile every time Orna lets me out to go for a walk around the grounds.

Speaking of Orna, she’s stressed to the next level. From the workroom window, I always see her and her sisters running up and down the hallways of the main buildings. Platters and drink trays in hands. It’s like they are always entertaining.

And Lorcan? I’ve only laid eyes on him once. Three days ago, I passed the back of the manor on my walk. When I glanced in one of the windows, Lorcan was in what looked to be a drawing room or a library, along with a handful of men I didn’t recognize. Even with the thick sheet of glass between us, I could feel the tension swirling around the room. He looked up, locked eyes with me and shook his head.

Go.

I scurried along the path, my heart beating in my mouth.

Today, the crisp air creeps through the window of my workroom, a welcome relief from the paint fumes I’ve been basking in all morning. The sky is a gloomy shade of gray, and the leaves on the trees outside are showing hints of orange and browns. I’m thankful when Orna comes an hour later to let me out.

I tug on a cashmere sweater and a beanie hat for good measure to walk the gardens. No matter how big and how sprawling the grounds are, I’ve settled into a daily routine, creating a well-beaten track for myself. Orna and I chatter lightheartedly for a few moments before she hears my stomach rumble and darts into the main house to make lunch.

Then, I walk the route. I trot around the perimeters first, starting from the entrance of the museum and finish at the gates that section off the grounds from the front of the estate. Then, I move onto the paths. The narrow, snaking lanes that lead to small pockets of the gardens, gardens within gardens, and of course, the rose garden itself. That’s where I usually end up. Basking in the solitude of there being no cameras or microphones or security men twisting their heads to watch me pass by.

As my boots crunch against the wet grass and the earthy smell drifts up my nose, a sudden wave of nostalgia hits me.

It smells like the first day of school. I squeeze my eyes shut and drink in the memories. The shiny feeling of brand new textbooks, their spines yet to be cracked. The wave of motivation that brews in your stomach—the one that lasts until the end of the first week until you’re back to your usual lazy ways. I can feel the promises I tell myself.

I’ll keep my notes tidy. I’ll attend every lecture without fail. I won’t drink on a school night.

The sadness hits my gut like a soccer ball.

There’s always been a tiny piece of me that clung onto the hope I wouldn’t be here come September. That missing one semester at the end of my second year wouldn’t mess up my studies too much. That come the beginning of my third year of college, this whole kidnapping thing would be nothing more than a crazy anecdote that spread around campus like wildfire. Hey, did you hear about the business student that got kidnapped by the head of the Irish mafia? Yeah, he kept her in a museum full of other shiny things, apparently.

But as I watch a leaf fall lazily from the branch of an ash tree, my heart plummets into my Birkenstock boots.

I’m still here. And what’s worse, is that I’ve enjoyed being here as much as I’ve hated it.

Suddenly, I feel foolish that I haven’t been planning my escape. Only a few weeks ago, I was sitting on the bench in the rose garden, driven by a desperate desire to find my way out of here by any means possible.

Then the Devil got in the way.

I’m wallowing in my own misery, doing the same loop around the front of the garden like a mad dog on a leash, when I hear something.

It’s faint but certain.

“Meet me at the rose garden.”

I startle, looking up from the hem of my sweater, and locking eyes with one of the henchmen standing in front of the towering hedges that block the outside world. Just from the three inches of space peering out from under his helmet and above the mask over his face, I realize it’s Cillian.

Those haunting gray eyes boring into me are unmistakable.

I’m numb, but luckily my body’s autopilot function is working today, and my feet take me down the narrow path to the rose garden.

It’s deathly silent in here; bordering on creepy. The rust is starting to set on the wrought iron benches, the rose petals are browning on the bushes, with many fallen into the damp earth to create a colorful sludge. My heart is beating in my mouth when I hear the gate creak open, and Cillian appears at the mouth of the path.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him in uniform. He looks much older under the weight of the armor. The bulletproof vest pads him out, and the black mask wrapped around his mouth and jaw gives him a creepy anonymity.

Breaking the heavy silence, I reach out to the nearest wilting rose bush and say, “You haven’t been gardening.”

A snort comes from under his mask. “Yeah, no shit. What are you still doing here, Murphy?” I’m taken aback by how ice-cold his voice is. He glances back at the gate then takes a few steps towards it. “These assholes talk, I can’t be seen in here with you.”

“I—”

He holds up a gloved hand to cut me off. “What’s your plan?” When I don’t reply, he curls the same hand into a fist. “I told you to have one.”

My voice trembles when I say, “I haven’t been able to. I can’t—”

“You need to get out of here.”

“By when?”

“Yesterday.”

I take a long drag of the fall air, hoping its freshness will stop me from feeling so dizzy.

“There’s a war coming, isn’t there?” I think back to what Nova told me at the dinner last week.

Another snort. “Coming? Get your head out your ass, Murphy. The war is here, and it’s about to end. It don’t matter if you’re on the right side or the wrong side. These men don’t care about little girls like you. Get your head out of your ass and don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

There’s a lump in my throat too big to swallow. Lorcan wouldn’t let anything happen to me. I’m his precious China Doll… right?

Hate me. It’s a hell of a lot easier that way.

My voice is meek, pathetic. “Why are you trying to help me?”

Cillian shakes his head and softens his tone—just a fraction, but it’s noticeable. “You’re innocent. Like I used to be.”

And with, he turns on his boots and stomps out of the garden.

Leaving me with nothing but weak knees and no escape plan.