Морган Райс - Loved

Caitlin reached the front door, and turned the knob. Locked.

Caleb stepped up, reached for the knob, and prepared to break it.

“Wait,” Caitlin said.

Caleb stopped.

“Can I try this one?” she asked, and broke into a mischievous smile.

She wanted to see if she had that kind of strength. She felt it, coursing through her veins, but didn’t know its limitations, or when or where it would come.

He smiled at her and stepped aside. “Be my guest.”

She tried the knob, and it didn’t give. She tried harder, and still nothing. She felt frustrated, and embarrassed.

She was about to let it go, when Caleb said, “Concentrate. You’re turning it like a human. Go deeper. Turn it from a different place in yourself. Let your body turn it for you.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She placed her hand gently on the knob and tried to focus, following his instructions.

She turned it again, and this time was surprised to hear a snapping noise. She looked up and saw that she had broken the knob. The door was ajar.

She looked over at Caleb, and he smiled back.

“Very good,” he said and gestured for her to enter. “Ladies first.”

The house was cozy, with low ceilings and six over six windowpanes. The outside light was fading fast, and they hadn’t much time to search, unless they wanted to start turning on lights. They walked quickly through, floorboards creaking, trying to take it all in as fast as they could.

“What are we looking for exactly?” she asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “But I agree that we’re in the right place.”

At the end of the hall, there was a large exhibit devoted to Hawthorne’s life. She stopped and read aloud: “Nathaniel Hawthorne was more than just another author who wrote about Salem. He lived in Salem. Most of his stories are set in Salem. Most of the buildings he described in Salem are integral to his stories, and many of them still stand here today.

“More importantly, Hawthorne had a direct personal connection to some of the events and characters in his work. His most famous work, for example, The Scarlet Letter , tells the story of a woman, Hester Prynne, who is imprisoned and scorned by her peers for her adulterous behavior. Hawthorne had a more direct connection to these events than one would think. His real grandfather, John Hawthorne, was one of the principal judges in the Salem witch trials. John Hawthorne was responsible for accusing, judging, and putting the witches to death. It was a heavy Salem ancestry that Hawthorne had to bear.”

Caitlin and Caleb started at each other, each becoming more intrigued. Clearly, there was a strong connection here, and they both felt that they were onto something. But they still didn’t quite know what. There was still a missing link.

They continued through the house, examining various objects, searching for something, anything. But as they finished searching the first floor, they came up empty.

They both stopped before a narrow, wooden staircase. It was blocked by a velvet rope, on which hung a sign: “Private: upstairs for staff only.”

Caleb gave Caitlin a look.

“We’ve come this far,” he said.

He reached over and unclasped the rope.

Excited, she went first, her footsteps echoing on the hard, wooden staircase. The house creaked and groaned as they went, as if protesting its new visitors.

The second floor of the house had even lower ceilings, barely high enough for Caleb to stand in.

It was now almost dark, and there was just enough light to see by. They stood in a beautiful and cozy room, with wide plank wooden floorboards, six over six windowpanes, and tastefully decorated with period furniture. At its center was a brick fireplace with black stain around its edges, clearly worn from years of use.

Greeting them at the top of the staircase was yet another exhibit, this one devoted to Elizabeth Paine.

Caitlin read aloud: “Hester Prynn, Hawthorne’s most famous character, the woman at the center of The Scarlet Letter , the woman who was persecuted for refusing to reveal the true identity of her child’s father, was, many scholars say, based on a real life Salem resident: Elizabeth Paine. No scholar has ever been able to identify the lineage of Elizabeth’s child, as she refused to reveal to any of the townsfolk who the father really was. Legend has it that he was a mysterious man, come over on a ship from Europe, and that their romance was a forbidden one.

“Elizabeth was banished from Salem and forced to live in a small cottage, by herself and with her child, in the woods, on the outskirts of town. The exact location of her cottage has never been found.”

Caitlin looked to Caleb. She was speechless.

“A forbidden romance?” she asked. “As in….”

Caleb nodded. “Yes. It was between a vampire and human. His story is not really about adultery. It is all masked, hidden. It’s an allegory. It’s really about us. Our kind. More specifically: it’s about you. Their child. The half breed.”

Caitlin felt the world spinning beneath her. The ramifications were overwhelming.

She also couldn’t help feeling that the story was repeating itself, that, generations later, she was playing out the same pattern. A forbidden romance. Two races. Her and Caleb. Repeating history once again, following in the footsteps of her ancestors. It made her wonder if lifetime after lifetime just repeated itself, endlessly.

They slowly surveyed the room. It was hard to see in the fading light, and she still didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. But now, she definitely, without a doubt, knew that they were looking in the right place.

So, apparently, did Caleb. He walked around the room curiously, inspecting everything. They both felt sure that whatever it was they needed would be in this room. Maybe even the sword itself?

But the room was sparsely furnished, and after she inspected, she didn’t see where anything could be hiding.

“Here,” Caleb finally said.

Caitlin hurried over to him. He stood beside an antique hutch.

He felt the side of it with his hand. “Look at this,” he said.

He took her hand, and guided it along the side, and she felt it. It had a small, metal indent. In the shape of a cross.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered, “but I do know one thing: it doesn’t belong on this piece of furniture. And I suspect something else: this unusual shape, the curved lines: I would bet anything that is the exact shape of your cross.”

She looked at him blankly, not comprehending what he was talking about. Then she suddenly realized and reached down. Her necklace.

“I think it’s a key,” he said.

She took it off quickly, and together, her hand on his, they inserted it gently into the indent. She was ecstatic to see that it fit perfectly. It entered with a soft click, and as they gently turned it to the right, a narrow, vertical compartment opened.

Heart pounding, Caitlin reached inside and gently extracted a frail scroll, yellowing, brittle. It was tied with an ancient piece of string, all but crumbling.

She handed it to Caleb, and the two of them unrolled the scroll together.

It was a map. Handwritten, hundreds of years old.

At the top of the map, in a handwritten scrawl, it read: Elizabeth’s cottage.

He looked up at her.

“Her cottage,” he said, breathlessly. “It’s a map to where she lived.”

She stared at it, in awe.

“Whoever stored it here wanted you to be the one to find it. Your necklace was the key. And it’s never been opened until now. He wanted you to find this map, to find her cottage. Wherever it is, there will be something in it for you.”