The velvet box containing the A.G. locket felt like a tangible weight in my otherwise carefully ordered room, a silent testament to secrets that refused to stay buried. Penny Featherworth's words echoed: "a key." But a key to what? And how did one open a locket with no discernible clasp, a locket whose very initials sent shivers of unease through Olivia? The upcoming Atherton Gallery event loomed, both an obligation and a potential, if risky, opportunity. My every move felt magnified under the increasingly watchful eyes of Caroline and Olivia.
The days following my clandestine trip to Queens were a tightrope walk. I immersed myself in the locket's mystery during my stolen moments of solitude. It was heavier than it looked, the silver cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. The intertwined 'A' and 'G' were elegantly carved, a testament to a craftsman's skill, but offered no obvious mechanism. I ran my fingers over every millimeter of its heart-shaped surface, searching for a hidden catch, a subtle indentation, anything. I held it up to the light, hoping for a trick of optics, a clue in the way the tarnished silver reflected the sunbeams. Nothing. Penny's cryptic remark about "Vance ingenuity" replayed in my mind. This wasn't a simple puzzle.
My grandmother, Lady Annelise Vance. The locket had been hers, a token from Arthur Grimshaw. What did that signify? A professional relationship that deepened into profound trust? Or something more? The thought was unsettling, yet it fit the narrative of a woman seeking to protect her legacy from within her own family.
Caroline and Olivia's scrutiny intensified. It was subtle, of course – an extra solicitous inquiry from Caroline about my "quiet pursuits," a seemingly casual appearance by Olivia whenever I spent too long in the library or my grandmother's old sitting room. They were like beautifully plumed birds of prey, circling, their senses alert for any deviation, any sign that the "recovering" Eleanor was perhaps recovering a little too quickly, a little too purposefully.
I decided a subtle probe towards my father was in order, a delicate cast into the murky waters of his memory. During a rare moment when he wasn't barricaded behind the Wall Street Journal, I approached him in his study.
"Father," I began, adopting my most earnest, slightly hesitant tone, "I was reading some of Grandmother Annelise's old letters the other day – just a few I found tucked away. She mentioned her solicitor, a Mr. Grimshaw, quite frequently. She seemed to place a great deal of trust in him." I watched his face carefully.
Richard Vance looked up, his expression guarded. "Arthur Grimshaw? Yes, he handled the family's legal matters for many years. A very… thorough man." His voice was noncommittal.
"Did he… did he specialize in anything particular?" I pressed gently. "Estate planning, perhaps? Grandmother seemed quite concerned with the future of her charitable work, the Foundation…"
"Grimshaw handled all aspects of the Vance legal portfolio," Father stated, a note of finality in his voice that discouraged further inquiry. "It was a long time ago, Eleanor. Ancient history." He then picked up a financial statement, the conversation clearly over. It was a dead end, or rather, a heavily fortified wall. He either knew nothing more, or knew too much and wasn't willing to share it with me. The latter seemed more likely.
The Atherton Gallery viewing and charity auction were now only a day away. My "eccentric" desire to find a unique piece of jewelry in Queens had, thankfully, faded from immediate discussion, overshadowed by Caroline and Olivia's own elaborate preparations. This was my chance. The locket was a physical object; its secrets had to be tied to something tangible, something that might be hidden within the Vance estate, something my grandmother might have considered a safe place. Her private study, perhaps, or a specific piece of furniture Penny might have alluded to if I'd known the right questions to ask.
The locket itself… I examined it again that evening, the overhead chandelier casting sharp, unforgiving light. "A clear heart, and perhaps, a little bit of Vance ingenuity," Penny had said. What was the most prominent Vance trait, apart from a talent for acquiring wealth and a penchant for familial backstabbing? My grandmother had been known for her intelligence, her love of literature, and her roses. Roses… The locket was heart-shaped, but the carvings around the 'A.G.', which I'd initially dismissed as mere filigree, now, under intense scrutiny, seemed to resemble… thorns. Tiny, almost microscopic thorns, intricately woven into the design.
And then I saw it. Not a scratch, as I'd half-expected, but something even more subtle. One of the "thorns," nestled right beside the curve of the 'G,' was a fraction of a millimeter longer than the others, and its tip, when I pressed it with the very fine point of a hairpin I'd been using to idly toy with, moved. It wasn't a button, but a tiny, almost invisible lever.
My breath hitched. With trembling fingers, I applied gentle, steady pressure. There was a faint click, a sound so soft it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room. The top half of the locket, the side with the monogram, didn't spring open. Instead, the entire face of the locket seemed to rotate slightly, not on a hinge, but as if on a central pivot, revealing a minuscule, keyhole-shaped aperture beneath the edge of the 'A'. It wasn't a space for a photograph or a lock of hair. It was clearly designed for a very small, very specific type of key. Or perhaps… not a key at all.
The aperture was too small for any conventional key I could imagine. What then? My grandmother loved puzzles, word games, ciphers. What if the "key" wasn't physical, but a word, a name, a date? The initials A.G. themselves? I tried to imagine what my grandmother might have considered a password of sorts. Her birthdate? Grimshaw's? The date the Foundation was established?
My mind raced back to Penny Featherworth. She had been the keeper of this locket's existence. Arthur Grimshaw had entrusted it to her. What if the "key" was something related to them, to their bond of trust with my grandmother?
The Atherton event was tomorrow night. It would be a whirlwind of social obligations, a perfect storm of observation from Caroline and Olivia. But it might also provide the cover I needed. If the locket was a key, it implied there was a lock. And that lock was likely somewhere within the Vance estate, a place my grandmother held dear, a place she felt was secure. Her private sitting room, rarely used since her passing, was filled with her books, her correspondence, her personal treasures. It was also a room Olivia had, with uncharacteristic speed, claimed as her own "meditation space" shortly after Caroline married my father, a move I now viewed with extreme suspicion.
As I dressed for the Atherton gallery, the weight of the locket, now tucked securely in a hidden pocket of my evening bag, felt heavier than ever. Olivia was a vision in emerald green, her eyes sparkling with anticipation for the evening's social conquests. Caroline was regal in sapphire, her smile a carefully constructed masterpiece.
"Eleanor, dear, you look… quite charming," Caroline commented, her gaze lingering a moment too long on my simple, pearl-grey gown. "Not too ostentatious. Appropriate." The backhanded compliment was standard.
Olivia, however, was uncharacteristically preoccupied. I saw her glance at her diamond-encrusted watch several times. Then, as we were about to leave for the city, she made a seemingly offhand remark that sent a jolt of pure ice through my veins.
"You know, Eleanor," she said, adjusting a perfectly placed curl, "speaking of old things and grandmothers, I was helping Mother sort through some of Grandmama Annelise's lesser-used silver yesterday. We found the most peculiar little silver box, heart-shaped, almost like a large locket, but it wouldn't open. No keyhole, nothing. Mother said it was probably just some sentimental trinket of no real value, destined for the attic. It's funny, isn't it, the things people hold onto?" She smiled, a flash of something cold and knowing in her eyes. "It even had some faint initials on it, I think. Something like… 'A.J.'? Or was it 'A.G.'? So hard to tell with old silver."
My blood ran cold. She knew. She had to know. Was this a taunt? A warning? Or had she genuinely stumbled upon something connected to the locket, something my grandmother had hidden, perhaps even the very thing the locket was meant to open? The "silver box" she described… could it be the lock? And if Olivia had found it, what had she done with it? The attic? Or had she, with her mother's connivance, already spirited it away, or worse, destroyed it? The unanswered questions multiplied, each one more chilling than the last. The game had just escalated, and Olivia, it seemed, was holding more cards than I'd realized.