Page 93 of Cross My Heart

I take in the scene. People of all ages from nineteen to ninety are dressed up in swanky formal-wear, talking and laughing happily, the crowd spilling over the huge main terrace area and down a wide stone staircase to the rose-lined patio and lush grounds below. There’s music, an open bar, even amusements like croquet and badminton on the lawn, which stretches for what must be a full acre, down to the edge of a lake which is glittering in the sinking sun.

It looks like any other fancy reunion party. A stunning and lavish display of wealth and influence, sure. But the place where dark deeds are plotted, and I’ll finally discover the truth?

“What?” Saint murmurs, noticing my crestfallen expression.

“I thought…” I flush, feeling foolish. “I guess I just thought a secret society gathering would be more…secret.”

“You mean, gathering in a gloomy crypt somewhere to make a sacrificial offering to some demonic power?” Saint asks, looking amused.

My blush deepens. “No,” I lie. But as two polished women in their thirties rush past us to hug, loudly shrieking their delight at catching up after all these years, I feel my determination slip. Ever since I found the first whispers about the Blackthorn Society and their vast power and influence, they’ve loomed large in my imagination—something ominous.

Something deadly.

I thought gaining entrance to their annual gathering would point me to the answers I need.

But these aristocrats gushing over the amazing Botox the other had done?

This wasn’t what I was expecting.

I shake my head, trying to think clearly. Just because things look perfectly innocent on the surface, it doesn’t mean nothing bad is lurking out of sight. Everyone has secrets, I remind myself, as Saint leads me deeper into the party.

I just have to dig deeper to find them.

We circulate,and Saint introduces me to a few people, stopping to chat and catch up with old friends. “We haven’t seen you in a while,” one red-faced man grins, squeezed into a shiny dinner jacket.

“You know me,” Saint gives a vague shrug, and the man chortles.

“To tell the truth, I was going to skip this year, too. Formula One in Monaco, half the old gang is out there, but the wife insisted we show. She’s all-in on the Ambrose campaign,” he nods. “As are we all. Gearing up for the final push.”

“Uh-huh. Good seeing you,” Saint slaps his back, and moves on, but the man’s words stick with me.

“So this event isn’t a mandatory thing that all society members have to attend?” I ask, and Saint gives a shrug.

“Technically, yes, but sometimes people have other commitments. You can’t miss more than a couple of years though, without getting a stern talking-to. You know, sacred bonds and all.”

“Oh.”

My hopes sink even further. I’m realizing, I didn’t think this through at all. It’s not some tiny, exclusive group here tonight: People from all generations are gathered, and I have no way of knowing which of them was even around at last year’s reunion to meet Wren—or who’s missing, who might have met her, who would have any connection to what happened…

“How about that tour you wanted?” Saint offers, as my disappointment takes hold.

“Sure.” I sigh. “Why not?”

I follow him back inside, relieved to have a break from the crowds. Here, every room is vast, and lavishly furnished in antique pieces, the history clear with every step. “It’s like a museum,” I comment, wide-eyed, as Saint shows me through a series of grand halls, all displaying glass cases of priceless artifacts and art.

“Yes. My parents don’t exactly prioritize comfort in their living environment,” Saint remarks dryly. “The cellars have been off-limits for years. Black mold. And we were supposed to keep well clear of all the antiques up here. Although, the polished floors may have seen a few rebellious hockey matches in their time,” he adds with a mischievous smirk, that looks awfully familiar…

I pause, looking up at a wall of portraits. “That’s you!” I exclaim, seeing a picture of a younger Saint, the same smile on his face, posed in stiff, formal clothing next to Robert. There’s a third boy in the picture, too. Blond and smiling. Edward.

“The future of the Ashford dynasty,” Saint says, his voice twisting on the words. “And just look at us now…”

I feel a pang. “So if you weren’t allowed down here, where did you do your homework, and watch TV?” I ask, changing the subject for him.

“Ah, that’s the part they don’t show to the National Trust.”

Saint guides me upstairs, to the family apartments, which turn out to be fairly normal. If normal means huge fireplaces and designer furniture, with modern touches. His childhood rooms are buried under the eaves, near a back servant’s staircase where I just know he used to sneak out all the time. I could spend hours hearing stories about his childhood here, but I know that I can’t be distracted from my task tonight, so I follow him back downstairs to the main historic part of the house, ready to return to the party.

“… And there are the grand old Dukes of Ashford,” he says, nodding to the row leading down the main, grand hall. There’s an array of older men, in suits, and then further back still, in extravagant period attire: cravats, and robes, and even a suit of armor.

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