Page 39 of Wicked Court

Sliding my bag off my shoulders, I plop onto the cream queen-sized bed with a huff, its draped canopy fluttering with my movement.

The weight of failure sits heavy on my shoulders. How can I uncover the truth about Sarah Anderton and the ruby necklace if I can’t even figure out where to start?

That’s when I notice the grandfather clock, standing alone in the long, dimly lit corridor, its pendulum swinging with a steady, unwavering rhythm that always lulled me to sleep, whereas it drove Maverick insane.

It’s an heirloom that Gram has always meticulously maintained, its twin making its home at Farrow manor on Gram’s insistence, its chimes a constant backdrop to my childhood memories.

Yet now, its hands are frozen, marking neither the hour nor the minute accurately. It’s unlike Gram to neglect it. A pang of worry for her well-being tightens my chest.

I approach the clock, intending to right what feels like a minor oversight.

“Gram’s probably too preoccupied lately,” I mutter to myself, justifying the anomaly as I reach out to adjust the clock's hands. It’s a small act, but one that feels significant, a way to care for Gram. She’s always alone in this too-big house.

As the hands align to midnight, I barely register the soft click that follows, too caught up in thoughts of Gram’s health and the strangeness of our last conversation.

But when the wall beside the clock shifts, a surge of surprise eclipses my worries.

The click that follows is the sweetest sound I’ve heard all day, a whisper of possibility in the deafening silence of my search.

The wall slides open enough to be a doorway, revealing a stone corridor that quickly turns black.

“What the…?”

Curiosity propels me forward, my phone’s flashlight navigating through the narrow passageway, the ceiling nearly brushing against the top of my head. The darkness seems to swallow me whole, but my stubbornness is stronger than my fear.

The passageway stops when I reach a small, cracked wooden door with iron hinges. It creaks open under my touch, and I step into a room that feels like a portal to another era. Dust motes dance in the sliver of light from my phone.

I take a moment to bark out a laugh.

I’ve rummaged through every inch of Gram’s mansion, expecting dust and maybe a few moth-eaten letters. What I didn’t expect was to stumble into a hidden room straight out of a movie, all because I decided the old grandfather clock looked too forlorn with its hands stuck at the wrong time.

It’s a discovery that makes you question if you’ve accidentally wandered into a parallel universe where your life is suddenly way more interesting.

The room is about the size of a home office, crammed with shelves of leather-bound books, maps strewn across a large oak desk, and yellowed papers with faded ink filled with a code I don’t recognize. An eroded brass plaque on the desk catches my eye, engraved with the name William Jonquil.

The name means nothing to me, yet I lift it up anyway, inspecting the letters for answers.

It’s then I notice the plaque was resting on top of a cracked, plain leather-bound book. Placing the plaque aside, I carefully flip the book open.

I half-expect to find mundane entries about daily life centuries ago. Instead, the name Sarah Anderton leaps off the page, written in a tight, careful script that feels oddly personal.

My heart skips.

But it’s the miniature portrait tucked between the diary’s pages that truly stuns me.

The painting is small, but the likeness is unmistakable. William Jonquil’s face, with sharp eyes and a half-smirk, is almost a carbon copy of Maverick’s. With the same intense gaze that could either warm your heart or freeze you out, depending on the day.

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

This isn’t just finding an ancestor in the family tree; it’s seeing my brother’s face looking back at me from the past. It’s eerie, comforting, and utterly bewildering all at once.

My hands tremble as I hold the portrait, tracing the lines of William’s face. Tears fill my eyes. I’ve avoided looking at pictures of Maverick, save for the single photo on my desk at the dorms. It’s all I can take.

How is it possible that he and Maverick could share such a striking resemblance across centuries? This room, his belongings, they’re not just relics. They’re a bridge to the past, to a man who now feels as familiar as if he’d walked out of my own memories.

I force myself to put down the portrait and recenter my priorities. I’m here for information on Sarah or the ruby.

Nothing else.

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