He straightened his shoulders and tried his best to add height to his pitiful frame. “I am not without threats of my own, madam,” he said, his voice wavering. “I might not be able to threaten you with bodily harm as I don’t keep company with those thugs you employ. But I do know people, people who would be interested in what you’ve been up to.”
“Is that a fact?” she asked. But he knew nothing. She’d told him she was interested in that crème because a friend who owned a French cosmetics shop had believed her product had been stolen.
“The fountain of youth,” he said firmly.
She narrowed her eyes at the man. “If you think—”
“I know precisely what you’ve been looking for. I do not accept employment from people without thorough research. I know of your previous association with the Marquess of Lindberg and his search for Atlantis as a member of Solomon’s.” He boldly jammed a finger into her chest. “I can destroy you.”
“Don’t touch me again,” she said slowly. “You know nothing.” But the nasty little man did. He’d uncovered her secrets, and she could not have anyone know what she was after. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Olney.”
She walked back over to the door and slammed it behind her. He couldn’t do anything to her, she reminded herself. Still, it would seem that he knew more than he should. She needed to call Johns. There was a mess here only he could clean up.
“Well, open it,” Sabine said. “What the devil are you waiting for?”
Max shrugged. “I thought you might like to warn me about what could happen if I pulled the latch.”
“There’s no time for warnings,” she said.
“Here goes.” He smiled and yanked hard. The wood creaked and moaned as it loosened and opened to reveal a staircase.
Their eyes met. She nodded and he stepped in, putting one foot on the step.
“Seems sturdy enough,” he said. “Though it’s going to be a tight squeeze.”
He was correct in his assessment, as he had to shift his body to get his shoulders through the opening. She followed him down. Their lantern lit the area around them enough for her to see that they stood in a small, carved-out room.
“Ah, perfect,” Max said. He stepped away from her, leaving her momentarily shrouded in near darkness. But soon light filled the area. “Torches,” he said with a smile as he lit a third one. “Always useful.”
The wooden walls of the shelter were plain and solid, with no markings or cutouts. The ceiling, aside from the hole at the entrance, was much the same. On the floor, however, lay stone tiles of different sizes, all painted with images. The brightly colored floor stood out against the rest of the surroundings.
“What is that?” Max asked, pointing to something in a corner of the room.
She followed his movement and found a pole with a small wooden box perched atop. She looked back at the floor, then felt for the leather bag in her pocket. “It’s a game,” she murmured as she poured the stones into her palm.
“This doesn’t look like a game,” Max said. He bent to the floor and ran a hand over one of the painted tiles. “They’re reminiscent of stained glass. This looks more like a tomb or monument of some sort.”
“No, it’s Thistle. I know this game,” she said.
“You’ve played before?”
No, she’d never played it before, but she’d watched the other children in the village for hours. Nose pressed against the window, she’d sat and stared at them while they’d laughed and skipped and tossed their rocks, until her breath would fog the glass. She’d longed to play as the other children had, but she had been born to a guardian so she’d had studies. And she’d had to be protected from injury and accidents that marked others’ childhoods with tiny scars and scuffed knees. Though all of that sacrifice had seemed foolish and presumptuous when she hadn’t been selected guardian.
She took a steadying breath. “Not precisely.”
“This is an Atlantean game?” Max asked.
“Yes, and I’ve seen it played many times.” She looked directly at Max. “I can do this.”
He opened his arms in a welcoming motion, then stepped away from the painted tiles.
She took another look at the small rocks in her hand, and then she released them into the box. They scattered and rolled until eventually, they stilled.
“Three,” she said. She moved over to the painted tiles and studied them. Max was right. They did resemble stained glass, with their portrayals of people in everyday life. On one, a woman hung laundry on a line to dry. Another showed people harvesting in a field. “Three,” she said again.
Before she began, she looked at Max. “Whatever happens, don’t touch the tiles until I’ve completed the game.”
He nodded.