Page 35 of Silver in the Bone

“What are we looking for?” Emrys asked.

“I remembered something last night,” I said. “A memory I hadn’t thought about in years.”

The Egypt job.

Emrys said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

“Every now and then,” I began, “Nash would bury things in doorways for safekeeping. Under tiles and floorboards. They were always random locations. I don’t know how he kept them all straight in his head.”

The memory of Nash’s explanation filtered through my mind. People search outside, and they search in, but never the between. That’s where the truth is hidden, where no one thinks to look.

“You think he left something in one of the doorways at Tintagel?” Emrys gave me a look that confirmed how flea-brained my plan was. “People are going to have a serious problem with us going around digging hundreds of holes in the ruins. Can you narrow it down at all?”

Not for you, I thought. It was so unfair that he was here for this, but pride wouldn’t let me go back on my word. “Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Emrys said. “You don’t think he would have tried to bury anything down in Merlin’s Cave, do you? That’s where Merlin supposedly carried the infant Arthur out to safety, right?”

I shook my head, surveying the dramatic sweep of the land. The waves hissed against the shore below us. “No, he’d be rightly worried about the tide uncovering anything he buried there and dragging it out to sea. I think he would have used a spot or structure that would have been in use during Arthur’s time. The Dark Ages.”

Emrys put his gloved hands on his hips. “And knowing his flair for the dramatic, I’m guessing he would have found a spot on the inner ward.”

The inner ward was the “island” of the ruins, separated from the mainland by a chasm. It was where we had spent the most time during our past visits with Nash.

Realization dawned like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You know where it is,” Emrys said. “Don’t bother lying—it’s written all over your face.”

I twisted my expression, turning it sour. “I think so.”

If Nash had left anything behind, it would likely be in the same place I’d been drawn to the day before. I’d lingered in that spot for hours, looking out across the sea like a sailor’s widow. I’d felt a pull to go there, one I couldn’t blame on the venom or any hallucination.

Avoiding the security cameras, we jumped the gates guarding the ruins. Rather than take the more visible—and safer—modern bridge, we took the older, more dangerous, one, then climbed the spiraling stairways to the inner ward. The smell of the wind was pure salt and greens, but its dampness crept through my flannel coat, through my skin and muscle, right down to the bone.

The north gate of the inner ward was a slate curtain wall, anchored by an arched doorway that now only served to frame a view of the sea. It was a striking image, certainly, but it was the ruins of the great hall itself that stole the breath from my lungs.

The thrill of it started as a tingling in my toes, quickly spreading up my spine to engulf my heart. For the first time, Tintagel lifted the dreary mask of decay and revealed a hint of its ancient, secret face to me.

With the One Vision, the few remaining walls of the structure were suddenly lit with iridescent colors. The longer I looked, the clearer the enchanted murals became. Though the intensity of the design had faded like paint in the sun, I could still make out shimmering scenes of dragons, nameless gods, and lush forests.

Just to the right of the doorway, a silvered path stretched out over the cliff’s edge toward the sea; it was impossible to tell where it ended, or if one could cross it to reach the distant horizon.

My amazement was in stark contrast to Emrys’s nonchalance. He’d seen it all, and likely far more impressive displays, before. I tried not to stew in that resentful envy as he circled the ruins.

We made our way toward the arched doorway in the curtain wall. I crouched down, studying the slate pavers they’d installed.

“Knife, please,” I said, holding out a hand behind me.

He passed it over, nodding to a stone paver on the left-hand side of the arch, raised slightly above the others. “That one looks a bit off-kilter, right?”

“It’s probably just from the storms,” I said, setting my bags down.

“You can hope, you know,” he said. “It won’t kill you.”

Kill me, no. But like all good torturers, hope drew out your suffering, taking its time to lift your spirits so the inevitable crash of disappointment would come twice as hard and painful.

“Keep an eye on the bridge and the other side of the ruins. The guides will be here soon to open the place up,” I said. “Watch for the one with the short, wavy blond hair—she’s quick as a fox and mean as a wasp.”

He raised a brow. “Any relation?”

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