The new moon, a sliver of obsidian in the inky sky, offered little comfort as Davies navigated the darkened, untraceable sedan back towards the Hudson Valley. Professor Alaric Fairchild, frail but resolute, sat beside me, the ancient, hand-drawn map of Verdant Hollow spread across his knees, illuminated by the dim glow of a penlight. Each mile covered felt like a step deeper into a perilous unknown. Thornecroft's acquisition of the estate, his potential foreknowledge of Grimshaw's secrets – these were specters that haunted the journey, transforming hope into a fragile, flickering flame. Seraphina Hayes and Vivian Holloway remained in New York, a vital home front, preparing for the legal and media battles that would inevitably follow whatever we found, or failed to find, at Verdant Hollow.
"The culvert entrance, Arthur noted, is approximately two hundred yards upstream from the old mill ruin, concealed by a thicket of wild rhododendrons," Professor Fairchild murmured, his gnarled finger tracing a faint line on the map. "He last surveyed it nearly a decade ago. Its condition… is an unknown variable. We must be prepared for… impediments." His voice, though soft, carried the weight of unspoken anxieties.
Davies parked the sedan in a secluded, overgrown track nearly a mile from Verdant Hollow's official boundaries, the engine cutting out with a sigh that seemed to merge with the nocturnal whispers of the surrounding forest. The air was cool, damp, smelling of wet earth and decaying leaves. "From here, we proceed on foot, Miss Eleanor, Professor," Davies stated, his voice a low baritone. He produced two powerful, military-grade flashlights, a compact coil of rope, and a small, sturdy crowbar from a hidden compartment in the trunk. His preparedness was, as always, both reassuring and deeply unsettling.
The trek through the darkened woods was arduous. The new moon offered no guidance, and our flashlight beams, though strong, seemed to be swallowed by the dense undergrowth. Professor Fairchild, despite his age, moved with a surprising, if slow, determination, his knowledge of the terrain, gleaned from Grimshaw's notes and maps, proving invaluable. I, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and a desperate, gnawing hope, found a strength I hadn't known I possessed, assisting the elderly scholar over fallen logs and treacherous inclines. The golden signet ring on its chain felt cold against my skin, a constant reminder of the Executor Key and the secrets it was meant to unlock.
After what felt like an eternity, the gentle murmur of the river grew louder, and through a break in the trees, we saw the skeletal ruin of the old mill, its broken water wheel a dark silhouette against the faint starlight. "Upstream," Fairchild whispered, pointing. "The rhododendron thicket."
It was almost impenetrable, a dense wall of dark green leaves and gnarled branches. Davies, with surprising strength and agility, used the crowbar to gently, yet firmly, pry an opening, revealing a narrow, almost invisible game trail leading down towards the riverbank. And there, half-hidden by the overhanging foliage and a tumble of loose stones, was a dark, circular opening in the earth – the mouth of the water culvert. It was smaller than I'd imagined, barely wide enough for a person to crawl through, and a faint, unpleasant odor of stagnant water and decay emanated from its depths.
"Arthur was… optimistic… about its dimensions," Fairchild observed, a wry, almost grim smile touching his lips. "It appears more… restrictive… than his notes suggested."
"It will suffice," Davies stated, his gaze assessing the narrow opening. He shone his flashlight into the darkness. The beam illuminated a low, brick-lined tunnel, its floor slick with mud and a shallow trickle of dark water. "It appears passable, though likely… unpleasant. Professor, perhaps you should remain here? Miss Eleanor and I can proceed."
"Nonsense, Davies," Fairchild retorted, his voice surprisingly firm. "Arthur entrusted this path to my knowledge. I will not falter at its threshold. Besides," a twinkle returned to his bright blue eyes, "my days of… subterranean exploration… are regrettably few. One must seize the opportunity."
Davies, with a sigh that was almost a chuckle, went first, crawling into the narrow opening, his broad shoulders filling the space. I followed, my heart pounding, the flashlight beam in my hand shaking slightly. The air inside was cold, damp, and heavy with the smell of wet stone and something else… a faint, musky odor that suggested unwelcome inhabitants. Professor Fairchild, with a grunt of effort, brought up the rear.
The passage was claustrophobic, the brickwork slick with algae, the shallow stream of water chilling my hands and knees as we crawled. The silence was broken only by our ragged breaths, the drip of water from the low ceiling, and the occasional scuttling sound from the darkness ahead that made my skin crawl. Rats, I presumed, or perhaps something larger. Several times, the tunnel narrowed further, forcing us to squeeze through, the rough bricks scraping against our clothes. Once, a section of the ceiling looked alarmingly unstable, loose stones held in place by a web of ancient roots. Davies tested it carefully before deeming it safe enough to pass beneath.
Professor Fairchild, despite his age, endured the ordeal with a quiet fortitude that shamed my own rising panic. He offered occasional words of encouragement, his voice a calm anchor in the oppressive darkness. After what felt like an eternity, but was likely no more than twenty minutes, Davies, in the lead, stopped.
"We are approaching an updraft, Miss Eleanor," he murmured. "And a change in the stonework. I believe we are beneath the chapel foundations."
A few more feet of crawling, and the tunnel opened, almost imperceptibly, into a slightly larger, man-made chamber, its floor paved with rough-hewn flagstones. We could stand, albeit hunched. Davies' flashlight beam swept upwards, illuminating ancient, vaulted stonework, a small, iron-grilled ventilation shaft high above (likely the source of the updraft), and then, directly ahead, a low, arched doorway, constructed from massive, dark stones, and sealed with an even more massive, iron-banded oak door.
The crypt entrance.
We had made it. We were beneath Verdant Hollow, undetected, at the very threshold of Grimshaw's most secret sanctuary. The air here was cold, still, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of ancient dust and something else… a subtle, almost imperceptible trace of my grandmother's rose potpourri, a ghostly echo in this forgotten place.
"Willow's Heart," Professor Fairchild breathed, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and trepidation as he gazed upon the formidable crypt door. "Arthur… he chose his final bastion well."
But as my own flashlight beam played across the ancient oak of the door, my heart sank. The lock was immense, a complex mechanism of iron and brass, clearly designed to repel all but the most determined, or knowledgeable, intruder. There was no obvious keyhole for the Golden Signet. And worse, there were… fresh scratches around the lock mechanism, faint but undeniable, as if someone, recently, had attempted to force it.
Had Thornecroft, in his meticulous acquisition of Verdant Hollow, already discovered this crypt? Were those scratches his handiwork, a sign of his frustrated attempts to breach Grimshaw's final defenses? Or had he, with his limitless resources, already found a way inside, plundering Willow's Heart, leaving nothing but an empty shell for us to find? The silence of the crypt suddenly felt less like a sanctuary, and more like a tomb, perhaps for our hopes, or even, for us. What new, terrifying puzzle did this ancient door present, and did we possess the true means to unlock it before Thornecroft, or his agents, discovered our audacious, subterranean intrusion?