TWELVE
“So you’re saying you didn’t find anything in the tunnel?” Fenice, who had listened to my tale of my nocturnal subterranean adventures with Alden, sat with her toast and tea getting cold, too riveted to consume the breakfast I’d interrupted. “Nothing? Not even so much as a clue as to what was going on? Or who put the lights there?”
“Nothing. The stream led out to an entrance in the cliffside, about eight feet above the beach. Alden said watermarks on the cave walls show that it used to be much more of a river than a stream, which would explain why the smugglers liked it. We couldn’t see any signs of a person on the beach—no boat, no campfire, nothing—and likewise, when we backtracked our way to his bedroom, we didn’t encounter anyone.”
She blinked a couple of times before absentl
