If you’re just joining this story, you may want to start from the beginning.
This story follows the first in Jenn’s Rediscovered series, Last Assault on Oak Island.
His dark eyes moved over the chateau vault's floor as far as the track of gouges led. He touched the deep scratches, learned fingers estimating the depth.
Three millimeters at least, he decided. He stood and followed the gouges around the corner, glancing back at the track leading deeper into the dark belly of the chateau. Unlike many of the other guests attending the weekend auction, the Duke would have no reason to invite him into the dark confines of the estate.
It wasn't entirely professional interest that prompted him now to move along the dimly lit maze of subterranean corridors. If the Duke wanted to part out his family estate, he could help, and it was his experience that some of the best treasures didn't make it to the auction block.
He stopped short at the sound of voices ahead, and then took to a shadowed corner.
Two workmen exited an old crypt, utility belts clanking as they broke for lunch.
When they disappeared completely, he followed the track of gouges again and found himself at the crypt. He paused before stepping into the stuffy chamber, detecting a chemical smell. Searching the stone walls, he found the security camera in the left corner, crippled, its wires dangling. He didn't switch on the freestanding floor lights the workmen had left, but instead retrieved his own small flashlight.
He smiled. Gustalav must have something worth guarding. A new addition, too, judging from the incomplete security. He looked back out the doorway, seeing no one, and stepped into the crypt. He gave the Italian credenza and sideboard against one wall a casual glance, intent on the track of gouges that dissolved at the tarp-covered mass at the end of the room. He knelt there and lifted an edge of the vinyl tarp, switching on the flashlight.
An acidic pungency wafted out. Beneath the cover were large, stacked wooden crates, metal ribbed, and extremely immobile for one man, he realized, grunting as he tried to shift one. He didn't remove the tarp; a broken corner of one rusty bottom crate caught his eye. It left the deepest gouge.
He worked his fingers into the small opening, hoping it wasn't mummified remains or a rat nest. He pulled out a small object, turning it in his fingers.
The oval measured about as big as a bantam hen's egg and easily took a shine when he rubbed off the yellowed powder coating it. He blew on it, watching the fiery cognac resin catch the light of the flashlight beam. A single delicate rose was etched into the center from the reverse side, its engraved petals sharp and clear even after 300 years.
"Yantar," he murmured, suddenly oblivious to the vault room around him. "Yekaterinensky Dvorets komnata."
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