Marcus Hartwell's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

By the tenth day, Marcus stopped sleeping. The hidden accounts pulled at him. He worked past midnight in the manor's cold study, tracing entries no honest clerk would keep. Aldrich paid him to fix these books. But Marcus wanted to know what they were hiding first. He found the pattern near dawn. Every month, Aldrich shipped large crates abroad. The ledger called them "gifts." Each crate went to one name, written only as Mr. K. No address. No price. Just gifts, again and again, worth more than most men earned in a lifetime. Marcus flipped forward. His finger stopped. Days after each shipment, money returned. Not a little. Millions, deposited into Aldrich's account by parties he could not name. Gifts did not pay you back. Marcus read the columns three times. The numbers held. Aldrich sent crates away and received a fortune in exchange. He sat back, cold. Whatever filled those crates, Aldrich sold it. And someone abroad paid a king's ransom for it. This was the source of the wealth no one in Duskwood understood. Marcus had promised his wife a home built on this money. He needed proof of what the crates carried. He rose and went looking for the storeroom the ledger named. The hall was dark. Marcus carried a single candle. He heard footsteps ahead and pressed himself against the wall. Aldrich passed, close enough to touch, his rings catching the light. The old man did not sleep either. Marcus followed. Aldrich stopped at the end of a corridor and pressed his palm against the wood paneling. A section swung inward. It looked like ordinary wall, seamless, its edges hidden in the grain. A door no guest would ever find. Cold air breathed out from behind it, and a faint smell Marcus could not place. Aldrich stepped through. The panel closed without a sound. Marcus stood frozen. His candle shook. He had come to Duskwood with eleven coins and a plan to earn a house. Now he knew the house would be paid for by whatever waited behind that wall. He reached the panel and ran his fingers along it. He found the seam, then the spot where Aldrich had pushed. He did not press it. Not yet. His heart pounded too hard. Instead he memorized the place. He counted the panels from the corner. Fourth from the left, waist height. Then he returned to the study before Aldrich could climb back out. Marcus copied the shipment records onto a loose sheet and hid it inside his coat. The moniker Mr. K. The dates. The millions returned. He had his answer now, and it frightened him more than an empty pocket ever had. He blew out the candle and sat in the dark. The books were no longer his real task. The door was. Tomorrow he would open it.