Chapter 6 - The Memory in the Scent of Lavender
The house went deathly quiet as Cassian and his strike team moved into position
around the lower subterranean levels of the villa.
Above, the storm clouds were beginning to tear apart, allowing pale, watery
shafts of morning light to pierce through the vaulted skylights of the upper
gallery.
I sat on the floor beside Mia, helping her piece together the wooden blocks of
her puzzle. Her delicate fingers traced each edge with astonishing speed and
precision, recognizing shapes that sighted eyes would have taken seconds to
identify.
“Sarah?” Mia asked softly, her head tilted toward the heavy oak door.
“Yes, sweet girl?”
“Giselle smelled like lavender yesterday,” Mia whispered, her lower lip
quivering slightly.
I paused, a wooden triangle frozen in my hand. “Giselle wore tuberose perfume,
Mia. Very strong, very expensive.”
Mia shook her head with stubborn certainty. “No. Before dinner. When she came
into my room to tell me to leave my cane behind... she didn't smell like
flowers. Her hands smelled like dried lavender. Like the little sachets Mama
used to keep in her linen closet in Rome.”
A cold prickle of realization danced down the back of my neck.
Isabella Vance had been famous for her lavender gardens at their private estate
outside Rome. She had harvested the flowers herself, drying them in the estate's
private dispensary to make oils for Mia’s childhood baths.
“Mia,” I asked, keeping my voice gentle, careful not to frighten her. “Did
Giselle bring something into your room yesterday afternoon?”
Mia thought for a moment, her brow furrowing behind her dark glasses.
“She touched Mama’s music box,” Mia remembered, her voice dropping to a
frightened whisper. “She said she wanted to wind it up for me so it would play
during the party. She had it on the vanity for five minutes while I was brushing
my hair.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Giselle hadn't just planted the tracker eighteen months ago in Rome.
She had replaced the battery yesterday afternoon.
The military transponder had been refreshed with a new lithium cell inside Mia’s
own bedroom less than twenty-four hours ago. Which meant that whoever had
brought the fresh battery into the villa was still inside this house.
Giselle hadn't been acting alone on the domestic staff.
Before I could process the terrifying implication of that thought, the heavy oak
door of the study clicked softly.
Not the heavy, decisive knock of Cassian’s guards. A faint, surreptitious scrape
of brass against wood.
The door swung slowly open.
Standing in the threshold was Mrs. Gable, the senior English housekeeper who had
managed the domestic staff of Villa Vance for six years.
She carried a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and two cups. She wore her
usual pristine black uniform, her gray hair pinned neatly into a tight bun, but
her pale blue eyes were darting nervously around the room, avoiding my gaze.
“Good morning, Sarah,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice trembling with forced
cheerfulness. “The Master instructed me to bring warm chamomile tea for the
little mistress while the lockdown continues.”
Mia immediately stiffened beside me on the rug.
Her small hand grabbed the fabric of my trousers with white-knuckled force.
“Sarah,” Mia whispered, leaning her lips against my ear, her voice shaking with
May you like
pure, unadulterated terror:
“Her apron... smells like lavender.”
