Julian Thornecroft. Here. Now. Brother Thomas's urgent whisper, "One who does not bear the ring, but who possesses… considerable influence," was a death knell to my clandestine research. The Grimshaw Ledger, with its explosive reference to an "Archivist of Last Resort" and the "Rose's first name," felt like a lead weight in my hands, both a treasure and a terrible burden. Thornecroft wasn't just a step behind me; he was practically breathing down my neck. How had he found this place so quickly?
"Is there another way out, Brother Thomas?" I whispered, my eyes darting towards the heavy oak door through which I'd entered, now a symbol of imminent capture. "He cannot find me with this." I clutched the ledger protectively.
The elderly Keeper of Records, his kind face now a mask of grave concern, nodded curtly. "The Order has always valued discretion, child. And foresight. Mr. Grimshaw himself ensured certain… alternative egresses… were maintained for moments such as this. Come, quickly. There is little time. His influence… it can open doors even the Order would prefer remained closed."
He led me, not towards the main hallway, but through a narrow, almost invisible panel concealed behind a towering bookshelf laden with ancient, vellum-bound tomes. It opened onto a cramped, winding stone staircase, spiraling downwards into the cool, damp earth beneath the brownstone. The air grew colder with each step, the only light a dim, emergency bulb Brother Thomas activated from a hidden switch.
"This passage leads to an old service tunnel, connecting to the cellars of several adjacent buildings," he explained, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the subterranean silence. "It emerges two blocks south, near a disused delivery entrance for a bakery. From there… you must be swift and unseen. Mr. Thornecroft is not a man to be easily eluded. He will know you were here. He will know you accessed the Folios."
"How did he find this place, Brother Thomas?" I asked, my voice echoing slightly in the narrow passage. "Is there a traitor within the Order?"
Brother Thomas sighed, a sound heavy with ancient weariness. "The Order, like all human institutions, is not immune to… external pressures. Or internal frailties. Mr. Thornecroft's family has deep roots in this city, roots that intertwine with many, even those sworn to secrecy. He likely has… informants, or those who owe his family favors. It matters little now. Your safety, and the integrity of Mr. Grimshaw's trust, are paramount."
We reached a heavy, iron-banded door. Brother Thomas produced an ancient, ornate key and turned the protesting lock. "This is as far as I dare accompany you, child. The tunnel beyond is straightforward. Go with speed and caution. And remember Mr. Grimshaw's final directive: 'Access requires the Phoenix Signet and the utterance of the Rose's first name. Only the true bloom will know it.' Annelise. That is the name. Guard it well. It is the key to the final door."
Annelise. My grandmother's first name. It was so simple, so obvious, yet so deeply personal. The "Archivist of Last Resort"… it had to be a place, a vault, a hidden repository only accessible through this final, verbal key, in conjunction with the signet ring.
"Thank you, Brother Thomas," I whispered, my heart overflowing with a desperate gratitude. "You've risked a great deal."
"I have merely upheld my oath as Keeper, as Mr. Grimshaw did before me," he replied, his gaze steady. "Now go. And may the spirit of the Phoenix guide your path." He pressed a small, heavy object into my hand – a tarnished silver compass. "Mr. Grimshaw also believed in finding one's true north, even in the darkest of times."
With a final, solemn nod, he stepped back, and I slipped through the heavy door into the cool, damp blackness of the service tunnel, the Grimshaw Ledger clutched tightly in my satchel alongside the locket and the ring. The door clicked shut behind me, a sound of irrevocable finality.
The tunnel was as Brother Thomas had described, narrow and smelling of damp earth and something vaguely metallic. My phone's flashlight, though I used it sparingly, cast long, dancing shadows. After what felt like an eternity of hurried, stumbling progress, I found the disused bakery entrance – a rusted metal hatch concealed beneath a pile of discarded flour sacks in a forgotten alleyway.
Emerging into the relative brightness of a grey New York afternoon, blinking against the sudden light, I felt like a creature dragged from the underworld. My clothes were smudged, my hair dishevelled, but I was out. And I had the Grimshaw Ledger.
My first priority was Davies. Madame Evangeline's atelier, my original pretext for this Village excursion, was now out of the question. My hour was long past. Davies would be waiting, or perhaps, already gone, forced to return to the townhouse by Caroline's schedule. I couldn't risk using my regular phone.
Finding a secluded doorway, I pulled out the satellite phone. The connection felt agonizingly slow. "Davies," I said, when his voice finally came through, low and calm as ever. "It's Eleanor. There's been a… complication. A significant one. Thornecroft. He knows."
I quickly, concisely, relayed the events at the Order's chapter house, Thornecroft's arrival, Brother Thomas's aid, my escape through the tunnels. I didn't mention the Grimshaw Ledger specifically, only that I had found "vital information" concerning my grandmother's true wishes.
Davies listened without interruption. When I finished, there was a long pause. Then, "Miss Eleanor, you are in considerable danger. Mr. Thornecroft will not take your evasion lightly. The townhouse is no longer secure for you, not if he suspects you possess what he seeks. Where are you now?"
I gave him my approximate location. "The opera announcement is tomorrow evening, Davies. I have to be there, or Caroline and Olivia will know something is amiss. But I can't go back to the townhouse. Not yet."
"Indeed," Davies agreed. "A public appearance, as scheduled, is your best, perhaps only, defense at this moment. It projects an image of normalcy, of… compliance. But you will need a secure location until then. And a plan." He paused again. "The 'Archivist of Last Resort' you mentioned from Mr. Grimshaw's notes… I believe I may have an inkling as to its nature, and its keeper. It is not a place, Miss Eleanor, or rather, not just a place. It is a person. A very old, very discreet… private banker, one who managed certain… exceptionally confidential accounts for families like the Vances and the Grimshaws, generations ago. His name is Silas Blackwood. And his 'archive' is not in New York, but in a vault in Geneva."
Geneva. A private banker named Silas Blackwood. My mind reeled. This was a global conspiracy, a web of secrets stretching across continents.
"Can you reach him, Davies?" I asked, my voice tight with urgency. "Can you verify the Rose Guard Fund's existence, the codicil?"
"Mr. Blackwood is… elusive, Miss Eleanor. He communicates through very specific, very secure channels. Channels Mr. Grimshaw, and subsequently Mr. Finch, would have known. The Phoenix Signet you bear… it may be more than just a key to a ledger. It may be a recognized symbol of authority within that rarefied world." He paused. "I will make inquiries. Discreetly. In the meantime, you need a safe haven. There is a small, private hotel in the West Village, under a different Vance holding company, one Mrs. Sterling is unlikely to be aware of. The St. Augustine. I will arrange a suite for you under an assumed name. Proceed there directly. Do not use credit cards. I will meet you there in two hours with cash and a more secure means of communication than even this satellite phone."
A safe haven. A plan. Davies was more than just a butler; he was a strategist, a silent, powerful ally. But as I disconnected the call, a new, chilling thought struck me. Thornecroft had been at the Order's chapter house, asking about the Grimshaw Folios. He knew I'd seen them. What if he, too, knew about the "Archivist of Last Resort"? What if he, too, knew about Silas Blackwood and the Geneva vault? Was this a race against time, a desperate dash to Switzerland before Thornecroft could seal that final door, or worse, empty the vault of its secrets, and its assets, forever? And the opera announcement… it was no longer just a PR stunt. It was a countdown. A countdown to what, I didn't know, but the sense of impending crisis was suffocating.