The Skeleton Key Read Free Page A

I hadn’t attempted to clean those landings; it seemed decidedly unwise considering the others who lived on the middle floors. Plus, it wasn’t really my  job, was it?
    On the top floor, I stepped up to the big midnight-blue doors of my great-aunt Celia’s penthouse. Knocking first was one of my great-aunt’s rules. I rapped my knuckles on the old door, slid my key in and stepped inside.
    â€˜Hi, Great-Aunt Celia. I’m home,’ I declared cheerily.
    The penthouse was warm and comforting as I entered. I hung my coat on the mirrored Edwardian coat stand and slipped off my heeled shoes, sinking a couple of inches.
    Celia’s penthouse still had the power to take my breath away. It was a remarkable space, with high domed ceilings and sparking chandeliers. Unlike the chandelier downstairs, these ones – and in fact the entire penthouse – never collected dust. The floors of the penthouse were gleaming polished wood and the main room in which I now stood was filled with rows of bookcases holding thick, mysterious tomes, some in languages I didn’t even recognise. Each item of furniture was antique – Victorian, Edwardian, art deco. Tables and chairs bore animals and mythical creatures, carved into the wood. Glass-fronted sideboards held artefacts as varied and curious as any museum’s. A carved tusk. A Venus flytrap. A two-headed coin. Fertility statues. An art deco nymph. Butterflies and moths in gleaming glass domes. A live black widow spider in a glass cage. (That last item made me shudder.)
    Tonight Celia had the curtains open over the tall, arched windows to reveal a crimson and maroon sunset, set against the spectacular Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building stood out, silhouetted in black. Soon I would be there with Luke, enjoying the view, I hoped.
    My great-aunt was seated, as usual, under the halo of her reading light in the lovely nook where she spent much of her time, surrounded by her books. I could see her elbow, and then she peeked her head around the corner.
    â€˜Good evening, Pandora. What very good timing you have. The Crow Moon will rise soon,’ she said.
    She had her feet up on the leather hassock and, next to it, her cat Freyja was curled up. Freyja was pure white, an albino, with beautiful opal-coloured eyes. She lifted her head and purred at me contentedly, then snuggled into her furry paws again. She must have had a big day of adventure to be so tired.
    â€˜The moon will be spectacular,’ I agreed and nodded enthusiastically. There was just enough time to quickly shower and change. I didn’t want to miss a minute of the evening ahead. ‘You didn’t need to send Vlad,’ I told my great-aunt. ‘It’s too generous of you.’
    â€˜But you wouldn’t have arrived in time for sunset,’ she replied calmly, forever pragmatic.
    â€˜Still . . .’ I began.
    My great-aunt’s slim ankles were encased in fine stockings – she always wore the kind with the line up the back – and now she uncrossed her ankles and slipped her feet into a pair of elegant, heeled slippers. She leaned forward and placed a feather in her book to mark the faded page. It was a leather-bound tome and one, I imagined, filled with great knowledge. She swung herself around and regarded me.
    Despite working at a fashion magazine I don’t know a whole lot about the fashion world, but, lucky for me, my great-aunt Celia is an unusually stylish woman. She was once a designer to the stars of Hollywood’s Golden Era and she was never seen in anything less than an ensemble worthy of the pages of Vogue – 1940s Vogue , specifically. Tonight she was wearing an emerald-green silk dress, cut on the bias, a thin black leather belt circling her willowy waist. Partially obscuring her face was a black widow’s veil, positioned at an angle over her jet-black locks. Celia did not like to be seen without her veil. Her