Page 83 of The Lady Glass
She slipped into the room and noiselessly shut the door behind her. It did not take long to locate the flint in the likely place on the fireplace mantel and to light a candle. The warm hue spread just a few feet in front of her, but it was enough to search by. The closet was the most obvious place, but when nothing turned up, she searched beneath the bed. Nothing. Alarm filled her veins. It was here, wasn’t it?
Had she been wrong?
Was Mr. Lewis trustworthy, like Rolland had said? How long had she been gone from Mr. Plasil? Did she have much time left before he stormed the manor? Her gaze caught on a small trunk just between the desk and the wall. It was covered with books.
She crept closer, holding the light up. It could be the right size to hold the vase. She set the candle on the desk and started moving the books as quickly as she could. Finally, she unearthed the trunk, unhinged the latch, and flipped open the lid. It hit the back of the wall with a dull thud, and she winced.
More books.
Her heart plummeted. She’d failed. She had dragged Mr. Plasil all this way and now faced the heartache of being so close to Rolland, and it was all for naught. How she wanted to cry. Her hand slipped, and her fingers caught something soft. Fabric.
There was fabric beneath the first layer of books, but its location was much too shallow for it to be covering the bottom of the trunk. She began quickly unpacking the books, which were fewer than she’d imagined in the dim light. Underneath them, the fabric was covering something, just like she’d hoped. Herheart knocked forcefully against her ribs as she pulled away the fabric. There, nestled in the bottom half of the trunk, was her vase.
Her hands shook. She lifted it up carefully and choked back a sob. It wasn’t the crystal making her cry; it was the stark memory of her father gleaming before her that snagged her emotions and wouldn’t let them go. It was hers again. It was finally hers.
“What are you doing with my vase, Lady Glass?” Mr. Lewis slipped into the room and, to her alarm, shut the door behind him. “Or, should I say, Miss Smith?”
She hadn’t even heard the door open. She swallowed back her shock enough to muster, “Try Miss Dvorak.”
Mr. Lewis’s brows shut upward, and a sinister smile slithered onto his face. “Even better.”
She clamored to her feet, feeling less vulnerable than on the ground.
She’d almost succeeded.
Stupidly, she hugged the vase to her chest. If Mr. Lewis had already killed two people, why would he spare her? With no better option, she attempted to talk herself from the room. “Lady Caspar sold you this without asking my permission. My father left it to me as my dowry.”
“That is unfortunate, as I now own it.”
“Please, Mr. Lewis.” Maybe he would let her leave if she begged. Maybe he didn’t know that she had connected the murders to him. Maybe he would even let her keep the vase. “I have money of my own. I will pay double what you paid.”
“Where would you get that sort of money?” He took several steps closer, and she backed up against the wall.
“From my godfather.” She pointed behind her. “He’s in the carriage. If we go to him now, he can pay you.”
Mr. Lewis chuckled. She’d once thought the sound aimable,but now it grated on her already frazzled nerves. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“I swear it!” Her chin wobbled. He was getting too close. He was going to kill her.
“Give me the vase. Your father owed Napoleon some crystal, and this shall be it.”
She tried to dart past him, but he grabbed her arm and swung her to him. She clawed at him with her free arm and kicked desperately at his legs, all while desperately maintaining her hold on the vase. He twisted her arm backward, her shoulder erupting in pain, while his other arm covered her mouth, silencing her attempt to scream.
“That vase is mine. Now, be a good girl and hand it over.”
She shook her head, wrestling against him, but his grip was strong. With enough pressure, she knew he could snap her neck.
“Do you really think you can escape from me?” He laughed into her ear. “If you want to leave with your life, then you are going to not only walk away from this vase, but you’re going to tell me where the glassblower’s treasure is.”
She froze, shock pouring through her. So that was the real reason he’d taken her vase. He believed in the legend.
He slowly released her mouth with his hand. “There. That’s not so hard, now, is it?”
“What makes you think I know where the treasure is?” she spat.
“Because only a glassblower knows how to read the pattern of the crystal map.”
She had no idea what madness he spoke of, but she couldn’t throw away her chance to live either. “What would you do with such a treasure?”
