Pages were missing, torn out. Gone forever.
Why?
Why remove pages from the journal? What had been written on them that Darius didn’t want her to see?
Had she torn them out? And if she had, why do it?
Letting the book thump back on the desktop, Pearl looked over the grotesque grandness of the items piled inside her cell. From the red velvet draping the walls, to the jewels scattered over desk and crevice, everything seemed staged—like an altar.
Like an offering.
What would a girl locked in a room need with jewels? She was hardly even dressed in little more than lace bound by a sash around her middle.
She was also sporting dried blood under her nails and she smelled in need of a bath.
But there was no water, no urn, only a chamber pot of sorts that was uncomfortable to use.
There wasn’t even a rat scurrying around for her to catch and eat.
Then again, according to the massive tome on the desk, she drank her meals from the mysterious Darius. In flowery language she even described the taste and how addicting it might be.
Pearl didn’t use flowery language. A great many of the entries she scanned didn’t sound like her at all.
Had he told her what to write?
More importantly, if she had been the one to tear out a page, where would she have hidden notes in this crypt?
Running her hands under the heavy mattress had led to nothing. Nooks in the wall were explored, the space behind paintings, even the trunk of scandalous clothing at the foot of the bed.
There was nothing but dust.
Dust?
Stamping her foot, Pearl felt the earth under the room’s sumptuous rug. Things could be buried in dirt.
Like bodies.
Or trapped women.
Throwing back a corner of the rug, brushing aside dried rushes, damp earth met her fingers. Clawing at it here and there did naught but pit the ground. Fueled by a growing need for answers, Pearl threw handfuls of earth aside, careless of where they fell.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for there.”
Crouched like a spider and panting as if she’d just run a race, Pearl cut a glance over her shoulder and hissed.
The mystery man himself stood like a beautiful beacon. And he was smiling at her, serene and unthreatening.
“Darius?”
A winged eyebrow arched. “Yes, Pearl?”
He obviously knew what she was up to, and seemed unconcerned. Tickled even. “Where are the missing pages?”
Walking toward a fantastical painting of an ancient warlord, the stranger pulled back a bit of torn canvas to display a nook. “Sometimes I find them here.” He then changed course, moving to a stone in the wall that came away easily when jiggled. “And often here.”
Both cavities were empty. Whatever she’d hidden away had been lost. And he had known to look for them. Nervous despite his kind expression, Pearl asked, “Why do you take them away?”
The handsome man’s smile grew charmed. “Take them? I collect and keep them for you.” He pointed to a small, obvious box on the desk. A place Pearl had ignored in her hunt.