The pre-dawn chill of New Jersey was a stark contrast to the humid Florida air I'd left behind. The private charter, a sleek, anonymous Gulfstream, sliced through the inky sky, carrying Anya Petrova – art history student, a phantom of Davies' meticulous creation – towards Zurich. Eleanor Vance, the heiress racing against time, was a ghost in the machine, her existence known only to a select, dangerous few. The opera announcement, my supposed public debut as a dutiful Vance, was set for that very evening in New York, a world away. Davies' machinations, designed to create a smokescreen of my "unfortunate illness," felt like a fragile shield against the storm Thornecroft was undoubtedly brewing.
The flight was a blur of nervous anticipation and forced rest. I re-read the digital transcription of the Grimshaw Ledger on the encrypted chip, its contents burning into my memory: the Rose Guard Fund, the "Archivist of Last Resort" – Silas Blackwood in Geneva – and the twin keys, the locket (now safely with Davies) and the Phoenix Signet ring, which felt like a heavy, potent secret on my finger, hidden beneath a simple leather glove. Thornecroft's tendrils were long; his suspected interference with the vault's dormant status was a chilling reminder that this was a global chessboard, and he was a player with formidable reach.
Zurich was cool, efficient, and impersonal. A discreet, dark sedan with tinted windows met me on the tarmac, the driver a silent man in a tailored suit who merely nodded and took my single, unassuming travel bag. The journey to Geneva was a scenic tapestry of rolling hills and distant, snow-capped peaks, a beauty entirely lost on me as my mind raced with the impending contact with Silas Blackwood. The new satellite phone, a marvel of compact, secure technology, felt alien yet essential.
Davies had arranged a small, furnished apartment in a quiet, historic district of Geneva, overlooking the Rhône. It was anonymous, secure, and far removed from the opulent hotels Thornecroft's network might monitor. No concierge, no prying eyes. Just stone walls and the hushed sounds of an old European city.
Once inside, the door triple-locked, I initiated the secure communication protocol Davies had meticulously outlined. The satellite phone connected with a series of soft clicks, then a voice, deep, resonant, and imbued with an old-world gravitas, spoke. "Mademoiselle Petrova, I presume? Mr. Davies indicated you would be making contact. I am Silas Blackwood."
His voice, though new to me, carried the weight of generations of discretion, the quiet authority of a man who dealt in secrets far more valuable than mere currency. "Mr. Blackwood," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you for agreeing to… this communication. Mr. Grimshaw, and subsequently Mr. Finch, spoke of your role as… a guardian."
"Arthur Grimshaw was a man of singular integrity, Mademoiselle," Blackwood stated, his English precise, with a faint, almost imperceptible French accent. "As was Alistair Finch. Their instructions concerning the Rose Guard Fund were… explicit. The Phoenix Signet you bear, and the name 'Annelise,' are indeed the primary authenticators for accessing the designated vault. It is a protocol established by Lady Annelise Vance herself, through Mr. Grimshaw, many decades ago."
"The vault," I pressed, "is it secure? Davies mentioned… recent inquiries."
A pause on the line, pregnant with unspoken concerns. "The vault itself, located within the sub-basements of the Banque Privée de Valois – an institution with which my family has had… significant dealings for over a century – is impregnable by conventional means, Mademoiselle. However, the inquiries you refer to were… unusually persistent, and originated from a newly established Zurich legal entity with rather opaque international financing. Their interest in a long-dormant, anonymously designated Vance holding was… noteworthy. I have reason to believe Mr. Julian Thornecroft may be the ultimate beneficiary of their curiosity."
Thornecroft again. His reach was truly global. "Can he access it?" I asked, my voice tight.
"Not without the precise authenticators you possess, and my personal authorization and presence, as per Mr. Grimshaw's final directives to the bank," Blackwood assured me. "The Valois bank operates on protocols far older, and far more stringent, than modern digital security. Lineage, trust, and specific, physical tokens are paramount. However, his interest signifies he is aware of the Fund's existence, if not its exact nature or access requirements. That, in itself, is a danger."
"I need to access that vault, Mr. Blackwood," I stated, my resolve hardening. "As soon as possible."
"I concur, Mademoiselle Petrova. The longer the Fund remains a point of interest for Mr. Thornecroft, the greater the risk of… unconventional attempts to circumvent established protocols. We shall proceed tomorrow morning. Ten hundred hours. I will meet you at the Café du Cerf, on the Rue de la Corraterie. It is a discreet location, frequented by those who value privacy. From there, we will proceed to the Banque de Valois. Bring the Phoenix Signet. And be prepared; accessing such a vault is not a simple matter of turning a key. There are… layers."
The Café du Cerf. Ten hundred hours. Layers. My grandmother had indeed woven a complex web.
The rest of the day was spent in a state of heightened alert. I studied the digital Grimshaw Ledger again, focusing on any details about the Fund's establishment, its intended purpose. It was clearly designed as a lifeline, a source of independent power for her "true heir," should they find themselves dispossessed or threatened. The assets listed were substantial, diversified, and managed with an almost breathtaking level of discretion. This wasn't just an inheritance; it was an arsenal.
As evening approached in Geneva, it would be midday in New York. The opera announcement. I allowed myself a brief, grim smile. Davies' "distractions" for Olivia and Caroline would be in full swing. The thought of Olivia dealing with a sudden, very public, and very embarrassing "allergic reaction" to the canapés brought a flicker of dark amusement. Thornecroft, too, would be managing the narrative, perhaps even subtly pleased by my "illness," as it removed a potentially unpredictable element from his carefully staged performance of Vance family unity. Let them have their charade. My true performance was about to begin, on a far more significant stage.
The following morning, I dressed with meticulous care – Anya Petrova, the serious art history student, in a simple, dark dress, her only adornment the heavy Phoenix Signet ring, now worn openly, a silent declaration. The Café du Cerf was old-world, its interior dim, smelling of dark coffee and aged wood. Silas Blackwood was already there, seated at a secluded corner table. He was older than I'd pictured, perhaps in his late seventies, with a lean, aristocratic face, piercing blue eyes, and an air of quiet, unshakeable authority. He rose as I approached, a gesture of old-fashioned courtesy.
"Mademoiselle Petrova," he said, his voice the same deep resonance I'd heard on the phone. "Punctual. An admirable trait."
We exchanged brief, formal pleasantries. Coffee was ordered, strong and black. Then, Blackwood leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "Before we proceed to the Banque de Valois, Mademoiselle, there is one final… preliminary. Mr. Grimshaw was a man of layers, as I mentioned. He believed true intentions were best revealed not through mere possession of a token, but through an understanding of its spirit. The Rose Guard Fund… its motto, known only to Lady Annelise, Grimshaw, Finch, and now, myself, was 'Sub Rosa, Veritas Floreat' – Beneath the Rose, Truth Flourishes. To proceed, I must ask you, what, in your understanding, was the truest 'thorn' your grandmother sought to guard against with this Fund?"
It wasn't a question I had anticipated. I thought of the vellum, of her fears of manipulation, of her desire to protect her "direct bloodline" and the "moral stewardship of the Vance name." I thought of Caroline's greed, Olivia's ambition, my father's weakness.
"The thorn," I said slowly, meeting Blackwood's gaze, "was not just financial disinheritance, Mr. Blackwood. It was the erasure of truth, the perversion of her legacy by those who valued power over principle, and who would sacrifice her true heir for their own avaricious ends. The Fund was to ensure that at least one Vance would have the means to fight for that truth, and for their rightful place, unbowed by their machinations."
A slow smile spread across Silas Blackwood's aristocratic features. "Precisely, Mademoiselle. Arthur would have approved. Let us proceed to the Banque de Valois. The Archivist of Last Resort, and perhaps, the truth of the Rose Guard Fund, awaits."
But as we prepared to leave the quiet sanctuary of the café, my gaze flickered to the rain-streaked window overlooking the Rue de la Corraterie. Across the street, half-hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway, a figure stood watching, a dark umbrella obscuring their face. It was impossible to be sure, but there was something in the set of the shoulders, the way they held themselves, that sent a jolt of pure, icy dread through me. Was it one of Thornecroft's ubiquitous agents, already alerted to my meeting with Blackwood? Or was the "aggressive Swiss legal firm" he'd mentioned making its own, more direct, move? The path to the vault, it seemed, was already lined with unseen watchers, and the "layers" Blackwood had spoken of were beginning to feel like a descent into a very dangerous labyrinth. What further tests awaited at the Banque de Valois, and had Thornecroft already found a way to bar the final door?