The Companion Series

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was a balmy evening, and the terrace doors were wide open to allow the breeze from the lake to fill the studio with the rustic smells of the vineyards below. Gauzy sheer curtains fluttered gracefully into the room, taking on an incandescent glow from the overhead lighting, their whiteness echoing the ardor of moonlight bouncing off the flagstones.

Rachel had undone the buttons of her blouse, intending to bathe before eating dinner and setting to work that night, but the trunk had sat there, beckoning. She couldn’t take her eyes from it as she’d pulled off her boots and jeans. There was no way she’d be able to relax in the bath while the trunk lie there unopened and the key burned in her hand.

Rachel lifted the trunk up onto her bed. It sank elegantly into the thick comforter as she climbed up to sit cross-legged before it. With the skeleton key secure in her hand, she studied the carved filigree surrounding the trunk's emblem. Above the elaborate silver plate, flush with the metal work, was a precise gap in the walnut, just as the locksmith predicted. It was too thin for the shaft of the key, but the exact dimension as the decorative bow used to grip and turn the key itself. Rachel pursed her lips and blew into the gap; particles of aromatic dust puffed back into her face—lilac.

She pulled the trunk toward her and pushed the head of the key into the gap until she heard a click. As she turned the key, she sensed the head itself was not turning, but the shaft was unscrewing from its connection to the decorative bow. The shaft pulled free from the trunk to reveal two thinner shanks that had been hidden within. Rachel wiggled them free from the gap. The decorative bow had separated so that half remained attached to each of the minor keys she now held. Small teeth covered the length of each.

Holding them up to the light, Rachel detected the same engraving of fig leaves and electricity. The filigree at the two top front corners of the trunk cut deep into the silver, the lowest indent on each corner revealing an otherwise unnoticeable opening. Rachel inserted the two keys into these holes and turned them in opposite directions to feel the click-click-click of the lock’s inner workings.

And then both keys would turn no more.

Rachel placed her fingers on either side of the trunk lid and slowly urged it up and back.

It moved without a sound.

The inside of the lid was covered in brilliant red raw silk.

In the mouth of the trunk, a similarly swathed tray hid the contents that had remained unseen for generations and that gave the trunk its intriguing weight.

In the tray itself lay a yellowed envelope, a fragile blond ribbon tied loose around it. It was sealed with an embossed globule of red wax across the opening flap. The seal had been broken long ago.

Rachel stared at the envelope for many minutes, still holding the lid of the trunk with both hands. She could sense the blood draining from her face and felt giddy, lightheaded.

The seal was that of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley.

Rachel lowered the lid of the trunk and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She went to the kitchenette, removed a glass from the shelf, and pulled an open bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge. After pouring an ample portion, she walked across the studio, without looking at the trunk, and out onto the moonlit terrace.

The breeze was soft against her naked legs and arms, and her blouse blossomed about her. She swirled the wine around her mouth and swallowed with delight. No, Rachel thought, the writer in her coming to the forefront, with unbridled delight. Yes, that was the word. Of all the papers, dossiers, and letters she’d reviewed for her biography on the author of Frankenstein, not one had been in the handwriting of Mary herself. And yet here, perhaps, were personal thoughts and musings unknown to the literary world.

Rachel took another gulp of wine, knowing she should wear gloves with the letters just as she did with the ancient papers in Château de Chillon and the Université de Genève. She should photograph and document the contents of the box to record their sequence before she disturbed them. She had a lot of work to do.

She walked to the edge of the terrace to take in the full evening view of Montreux. She caught the glow of eyes in the undergrowth beneath her. Though she heard no clatter of cowbell, she thought it must surely be one of the château’s herd. She stared down at the eyes and raised her glass with a smile. The eyes blinked out and she saw them no more.

Rachel took her time returning to the trunk. She savored the glass of wine in the steamy confines of her bathroom, pulled on her summer pajama shorts and matching tank top, grilled some Gruyère cheese in her kitchenette, and then sat at her dining table to finish off the toast and sauvignon. She opened her laptop and created a spreadsheet to document her actions and findings before taking several pictures of the trunk and then putting on gloves to open it for a second time.

She took several photos of the yellowed envelope from different angles, made notes on her spreadsheet, and then picked up the envelope between two gloved fingertips. The ribbon fell free with a gentle nudge, and the flap of the envelope pushed up easily, nowhere as brittle as she’d thought it might be. She pulled out the letter contained within—a single piece of paper, folded once— and opened it, her glance flicking immediately to the signatory: M. Shelley.

Rachel’s heart skipped a beat.