XXXIX
The walk back toward civilization feels strangely natural with Lorian beside me. His long stride adjusting to my slower, recovering pace, and shorter legs. His presence is quiet but steady. The woods thin, the path widens, and soon the rooftops of town peek through the trees like familiar landmarks pulling me forward.
I take his card. It was thick, cream‑colored, embossed with a leaf motif that matches the copper medallion, and exchanged numbers with him. My phone buzzed with a quick message from him, polite and succinct, confirming the connection.
"I still need to go to the bank," I tell him. "To open the safety deposit box."
His phoenix‑bright eyes warm.
"Would you like company?"
I hesitate only a moment before nodding. Something about him feels… safe. Or at least aligned with whatever strange legacy my great‑aunt left behind.
He guides me down the last stretch of the wooded path, boots whispering against damp leaves. The transition from forest to pavement feels abrupt, like a part of a map ending. Suddenly I could hear the hum of distant traffic, the smell of wet asphalt, and the sight of streetlamps still glistening from last night's storm. I almost feared I would see the lamps glow an antique yellow, and the rising fog.
Within minutes, we reached his rental car parked neatly along the curb.
A midnight‑black Mercedes SUV. It looked expensive. The design is sleek, modern, and wildly at odds with his Regency‑era clothing. He opens the passenger door for me with a courteous bow of his head, as if he's done this gesture for centuries.
Inside, the leather seats smell faintly of cedar and rain.
"We'll stop at the mansion first," I say, buckling in. "I need the paperwork and the deposit box key. I suspect the other half of your copper key is part of my inheritance."
He nods, starting the engine with a smooth purr.
"Of course. Olivia was meticulous. She would have ensured everything you need is in one place."
The drive is quiet but comfortable. We sat in the kind of silence that doesn't demand conversation. The mansion rises ahead of us, its Victorian silhouette sharp against the washed‑clean morning sky. The storm has left the world bright and crisp, the air alive with the first breath of fall.
As we pull into the driveway, Lorian glances at the house with a look that's almost reverent.
"She loved this place," he murmurs. "And she trusted you with it."
I swallow, feeling the weight of that trust settle deeper.
We head inside to gather the paperwork, the will documents, the identification forms, and the small brass key to the safety deposit box. Lorian waits patiently in the foyer, hands clasped behind his back, eyes drifting over the mirrors as if greeting old acquaintances.
Then we return to the SUV and head toward town, the road winding between wheat fields that sway like golden blankets and the occasional rusty red farm building or grain silo.
The bank waits ahead with a quiet, brick‑fronted, unassuming building.
The teller leads us through the quiet lobby, past the polished counters and the humming printers, toward a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She checks my paperwork twice, glances at the safety deposit box key in my hand, then nods and opens the door.
The stairwell is narrow and cool, the air shifting from the scent of carpet and coffee to the dry, metallic chill of the bank's lower level. Lorian walks beside me, silent but alert, his boots making soft echoes on the concrete steps. The teller's heels click sharply ahead of us.
We descend into the vault corridor.
It feels like stepping into the ribs of some great metal beast.
Rows upon rows of safety deposit boxes line the walls. There were hundreds of them, each with two keyholes, each waiting for the dual‑key of the bank, and the box owner to open. The boxes come in two sizes: narrow drawers stacked like filing cabinets, and larger lockers built into the lower rows. Every one of them is locked, silent, and heavy with secrets.
The teller gestures toward a central area. She pulled a key from her ring that matched my great aunt's for the double lock. Two industrial metal tables sit under bright fluorescent lights, their surfaces cold and spotless. Each table is divided into four sections by thick plexiglass partitions, giving customers privacy while they examine whatever they've locked away from the world. In front of each partition sits a simple metal chair, utilitarian and unadorned.
"This way," the teller says, guiding us to one of the larger lockers, keys jingling in hand.
I feel Lorian's presence behind me. His breath was steady. His body moved slowly, patiently, but unmistakably curious. His phoenix‑bright eyes take in the vault with strange familiarity, as if he's seen places like this before.
The teller inserts the bank's master key into the first keyhole.
"Whenever you're ready," she says.
I slide my matching number bank key, the one my great‑aunt left for me, into the second keyhole. It fits perfectly, as though it's been waiting for this moment. The lock turns with a heavy, satisfying clunk. The teller steps back as the locker door clicks open, lighting the darkened contents.
"You may take the box to any table," she says. "Just let me know when you're finished."
Her hand waves to a red button on the corner of the table. "Ring this when you're done,"
She leaves us alone in the vault.
I lift the safety deposit box, surprisingly weighty, and carry it to one of the metal tables.
Lorian pulls out the chair for me, the gesture elegant despite the stark surroundings.
The box sits between us, silent and full of whatever my great‑aunt thought important enough to hide away. The fluorescent lights hum overhead.
The vault is still. Lorian asks if I allow him to see the contents. I nodded, turning the key.
"Whatever this is, is probably connected to you too." I said to him.
And Lorian watches with a quiet, unreadable expression.
The lid opens, and my thoughts grew heavy, world tilting.
Inside the safety deposit box sits an antique jewelry case, black lacquer polished to a mirror‑shine. A single rose is etched into the lid, delicate and old‑fashioned, the kind of engraving done by hand rather than machine. It looks like something Olivia would have kept on her dresser, something sentimental.
But when I lift the lid, sentiment evaporates. Inside, arranged with meticulous precision, are two rows of coins, each the size of a casino chip, and each glowing with a faint, impossible blue light.
My breath catches.
Spirit coins. Actual spirit coins. They looked similar to the coins the gamblers used at the Red Carousel, pieces of beings encased in a small round object. Two dozen of them, lying quietly in the velvet-lined interior like sleeping stars. The glow pulses faintly, as if responding to my presence. My fingers twitch, instinctively wanting to touch one. I hesitate. The memory of the Carousel, the mirrors, the soul‑harvesting machines slams into me.
These aren't supposed to exist here.
They did not belong in this world, not in any human vault.
I snap the lid shut so fast the lacquer clicks sharply, echoing through the vault.
My heart pounds. My palms sweat.
Lorian goes very still beside me.
He knows what they are.
I can see it in the way his phoenix‑bright eyes sharpen, the way his posture shifts. His posture shifts to worried alert, wary of these objects that surpassed the mundane world.
I force myself to look back into the box.
Beside the jewelry case lies another object. Inside was a copper key, identical in shape to Lorian's medallion. Same size. Same warm metal. Same faint shimmer. But the engraving is different.
His coin bears a single leaf embossed in high relief. Mine bears a leaf, stamped cleanly in reverse of his into the front.
Two medallions that are used as one key. Two leaves that fit each other like a nesting doll.
Two halves of something Olivia meant us to unlock together.
Lorian exhales slowly, almost a sigh.
"She left you the other medallion," he murmurs. "And she left me the path."
I swallow hard, the weight of the box suddenly immense.
The vault feels colder. The fluorescent lights hum louder.
And the air between us thickens with the realization that Olivia wasn't just eccentric. She was involved in something vast, dangerous, and deeply intertwined with the mirror‑world.
Lorian's voice softens.
"Spirit coins don't cross worlds by accident."
I close the box again, hands trembling. We needed to get back to the library. Maybe the explanation was in whatever those medallions would reveal.
I called the teller, and we re-locked the safe door. I take the box with me. Lorian and I hop back in the SUV, driving back to the mansion.