Chapter 167 - The Shadows of the Grand Salon
The climb up the dumbwaiter shaft was a nightmare of rusted iron and suffocating soot. Emma went first, carrying Maya on her back secured with Julian’s nylon belt, her fingers clinging to the freezing rungs embedded in the chimney brickwork. Every muscle in her arms tore with exhaustion, but she refused to slip. Beneath her, Julian climbed rung by rung, his breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps, his boots scraping against the mortared stone.
When Emma’s hand finally struck the wooden hatch at the top of the shaft, she pushed upward with all her remaining strength. The hatch gave way with a soft, muffled creak, opening into the dim, carpeted warmth of the butler’s pantry.
Emma hauled Maya through the opening, rolling onto the floor of polished walnut. The contrast with the frozen lake was shocking. Here, the house was warm, fragrant with the scents of pine boughs, beeswax, and expensive roasted meats. The grandfather clock in the adjacent dining room struck eleven-thirty with a deep, resonant chime that vibrated through the floorboards.
Emma reached down into the dark opening, grabbing Julian’s wrists and pulling him up onto the pantry carpet. He collapsed against a row of mahogany china cabinets, his skin deathly pale, his eyes unfocused.
"Stay here," Emma whispered to Maya, pulling the child into the space beneath a low counter and draping a heavy wool table runner over her. "Do not make a sound, no matter what you hear. Do you hear me, Maya?"
"I hear you, Mommy," Maya whispered, her eyes wide, reflecting the warm amber glow leaking under the pantry door. "Are you going to talk to Grandma?"
"I’m going to finish Christmas dinner," Emma said grimly.
She turned to Julian. She picked up his discarded SIG Sauer, checked the magazine—six rounds left—and chambered a round with a smooth, quiet slide.
"Emma," Julian croaked from the floor, his hand feebly reaching for her ankle. "Don't... don't go in there alone. She has... she has one more play."
"She’s out of plays, Julian," Emma said. "She’s sitting in a warm room waiting for a courier to bring her a signature. I’m going to deliver it myself."
Emma pushed open the swinging door of the butler's pantry and stepped out into the grand dining room.
The sight before her was grotesque in its perfection. The long mahogany dining table was laid with the full Vance silver service. Twelve settings of bone china, crystal wine glasses, and silver platters were arranged in immaculate symmetry. At the head of the table sat Eleanor Vance, wearing a dark green velvet evening gown, her silver hair coiled into an elegant crown, a crystal snifter of vintage port held lightly between her manicured fingers.
On the sideboard, the small Christmas tree Emma and Maya had decorated on Christmas Eve stood untouched, its cheap handmade ornaments looking painfully out of place amidst the opulence of the room.
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Eleanor didn't flinch when the pantry door swung open. She didn't look startled. She merely lowered her glass to the polished wood, her lips curving into a tight, aristocratic smile that did not reach her pale blue eyes.
"You took your time, Emma," Eleanor said, her voice smooth, melodious, completely untroubled by the sirens howling in the distance. "And you’ve tracked mud onto the Tabriz rug. Your father always had the same disgusting habit after his hunting trips."
