Julian Thornecroft's smile, a chilling curve of his lips, did not reach his stormy grey eyes. He stood, a figure of relaxed menace amidst the riotous blooms of his great-aunt's garden, watching me with an intensity that stripped away the flimsy guise of Eleanor Ainsworth, botany student. The newly discovered signet ring felt like a burning coal in my satchel. My carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter. Had Silas underestimated him? Or had I, in my desperation, been reckless?
"Illuminating, indeed, Miss Ainsworth," Thornecroft repeated, his voice a silken drawl that did little to mask the underlying steel. He took a slow step closer, his gaze flicking from my face to the disturbed earth at the base of the "Thornecroft Triumph" rose, then back to my satchel. "My great-aunt Evelyn always said her garden held many secrets for those… persistent enough to dig for them. Though, usually, one uses a trowel for more conventional horticultural pursuits."
My mind raced. Denial was futile. He'd seen me. He knew. "Mr. Thornecroft," I began, my voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic hammering of my heart, "I assure you, my interest is purely academic. The grafting techniques used on this particular cultivar are… quite unique. I was merely examining the rootstock more closely." I gestured vaguely with my gloved hand, hoping the trowel, now hastily tucked beside me, looked like a legitimate research tool.
He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Academic interest, of course. And Mr. Alistair Finch? Was your association with him also… academic?"
The name, dropped so casually, so deliberately, hit me like a physical blow. My carefully constructed facade crumbled. He knew about Finch. Which meant he likely knew far more. The "Miss Ainsworth" charade was over.
"I see my reputation, or rather, Mr. Finch's, precedes me," I said, my voice regaining a measure of coolness. I rose slowly, brushing mulch from my linen dress, meeting his gaze directly. "And you, Mr. Thornecroft? What is your interest in a humble botany student and a retired solicitor?"
"Let's dispense with the pleasantries, Miss… Vance, shall we?" he countered, the "Ainsworth" now a discarded pretense. His use of my true name was a clear assertion of power, of knowledge. "My interest, Miss Vance, lies in protecting certain… family legacies. Legacies that men like Alistair Finch, and his predecessor Arthur Grimshaw, were entrusted with, and perhaps, occasionally, misinterpreted."
"Misinterpreted?" I challenged, a spark of defiance igniting. "Or perhaps, protected from those who would see them… subverted?" The words from the vellum echoed in my mind.
Thornecroft's smile widened, but it was a predator's smile – all teeth and no warmth. "Semantics, Miss Vance. The point is, certain affairs are best left undisturbed. Mr. Finch, in his later years, developed a rather… romanticized notion of his duties. He became convinced of conspiracies where there were merely… complex family dynamics."
"And his sudden disappearance?" I pressed, emboldened by a desperate need for answers. "Was that also a 'complex family dynamic'?"
"Mr. Finch," Thornecroft said, his voice dropping to a confidential, almost conspiratorial tone, "chose to seek a more… private retirement. Some men, as they age, find the burdens of past confidences too heavy to bear. He was offered a generous opportunity to unburden himself, to ensure his remaining years were comfortable and… untroubled. He wisely accepted."
Offered. The word was a chilling euphemism. Finch hadn't just vanished; he'd been bought, or coerced, into silence. The "Rose of Sarasota" hadn't been a place for him to hide a key; it had been a final, desperate message, a pointer for anyone who might follow.
"And the 'Rose of Sarasota'?" I asked, watching his reaction intently. "The 'second key' he mentioned in his… private papers?"
Thornecroft's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Finch was prone to flights of fancy, Miss Vance. Poetic metaphors. My great-aunt Evelyn's garden was simply that – a garden. Beautiful, certainly. But hardly a repository for… keys to forgotten kingdoms." He was good, very good. His denial was smooth, almost convincing. But the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his gaze flickered towards the "Thornecroft Triumph" rose, told me otherwise. He knew about the ring. Or at least, he suspected its existence.
"It seems you have a remarkable interest in my great-aunt's horticultural pursuits, and Mr. Finch's literary musings, for someone merely… protecting family legacies," I countered, my voice sharper than I intended.
Before he could reply, the cheerful, slightly quavering voice of Mrs. Albright, my Bloom & Thorn Society chaperone, drifted through the manicured hedges. "Eleanor, dear? Miss Ainsworth? Are you still with the Gallicas? We're about to move on to the hybrid teas!"
Salvation, or a temporary reprieve. Thornecroft's head turned slightly towards the sound. The interruption had broken the tension, but also, perhaps, saved me from a more direct, and potentially dangerous, line of questioning.
"It seems your academic society awaits, Miss Ainsworth," Thornecroft said, his predatory smile returning. He inclined his head, a gesture of mock politeness. "A word of advice, if I may. Some roses, no matter how beautiful, are best admired from a distance. Their thorns can be… surprisingly sharp. And some truths, once unearthed, can poison the entire garden." He paused, his gaze locking with mine. "Enjoy the rest of your tour. And do give my… regards… to your stepsister, Olivia. I understand you're both staying at the Academy. Such a small world, isn't it?"
With a final, chilling nod, he turned and strolled away, disappearing amongst a riot of vibrant bougainvillea, leaving me shaken, my heart pounding, the signet ring in my satchel feeling like a brand.
I rejoined the Bloom & Thorn Society, my mind a whirlwind. Mrs. Albright cast a curious glance at my slightly flushed cheeks and the smudge of dirt on my dress but, thankfully, said nothing. The rest of the tour passed in a daze. I feigned interest, took copious, meaningless notes, and nodded at appropriate intervals, all the while Thornecroft's words, his veiled threats, his unnerving knowledge, echoed in my ears.
Back in the sterile anonymity of my academy suite, the Florida sun, once a symbol of escape, now felt oppressive. Olivia, thankfully, was absent, her suite silent. I locked my door, my hands still trembling, and pulled out the signet ring.
It was silver, old, the metal worn smooth in places. The crest was unlike anything I'd ever seen: a phoenix, wings outstretched, rising from a bed of stylized flames. Intertwined with the flames were the delicate outlines of a rose and a key. It was a powerful, evocative image. But what did it mean? Whose crest was it? And how was this ring a "second key"? It had no moving parts, no obvious mechanism like the locket.
I examined it under the harsh light of my desk lamp. There were no inscriptions, no maker's marks. Just the crest. A phoenix – rebirth, immortality. A rose – my grandmother, the Rose Guard Fund, the Rose of Sarasota. A key – unlocking secrets, access. It was a potent combination of symbols.
I needed to contact Silas. But Thornecroft's parting shot about Olivia, his knowledge of my whereabouts, made using any conventional communication method, even the academy's Wi-Fi with Davies' encrypted tablet, feel incredibly risky. Thornecroft was here, in Sarasota. He knew I wasn't "Miss Ainsworth." He knew I was digging. He might even have my suite under surveillance.
The satellite phone. Davies had given it to me for a reason. It was my only secure line.
But what could Silas tell me about a ring? He was "Botanical Retrieval," not a heraldry expert or a locksmith. Yet, Finch had trusted him enough to use him as a conduit, a point of contact.
My gaze fell upon Finch's journal, still open on the bed. Some seeds are best sown in secret, to bloom in a safer season. Had Finch sown more than just the ring? Was there another layer to this, something I was missing?
The ring itself… I slipped it onto my little finger. It was too large, clearly a man's ring. As I twisted it, admiring the intricate carving of the phoenix, my fingertip brushed against a tiny, almost invisible irregularity on the inside of the band. It wasn't a scratch. It felt like… a minute, raised point, a tiny bump of silver.
My heart leaped. Using the fine tip of a hairpin, I pressed it gently.
Nothing.
I pressed harder. Still nothing. Then, remembering the locket, I tried to rotate the outer band of the ring, while holding the inner part steady. It was stiff, unyielding. But then, with a surge of desperate hope, I applied more pressure, twisting with all my strength.
There was a faint, almost imperceptible click. The outer band of the ring hadn't just rotated; a minuscule section, no larger than a grain of rice, slid open, revealing not a mechanism, but a tiny, hollow compartment. And inside that compartment, so small I almost missed it, was a tightly rolled sliver of impossibly thin parchment.
Another message from Finch. Another layer of his dangerous, desperate game.
Just as I was about to retrieve it, a sharp, insistent knock echoed from my suite door. Not a polite tap, but an urgent, demanding summons. My blood ran cold. I froze, the tiny, secret compartment of the ring still open, its hidden message unread.
"Eleanor?" Olivia's voice, sharp and impatient, cut through the silence. "Eleanor, are you in there? Open up. There's… there's been a development. A rather… significant one." Her tone was laced with an unusual urgency, an undercurrent I couldn't decipher. Was it feigned alarm? Or had something truly happened, something that had even rattled Olivia's usually unshakable composure? And what did she want with me now, at this precise, critical moment?