I hold the torch up, the heat warming up my face. The flame dances on the wooden stick, and the warm light flickers in the dark.

I tried to push the rock back to close the entrance, but it wouldn’t budge. I experimented with a few ideas, and none of them worked.

I figured the guy probably didn’t want me to close it anyway. He would’ve sent me an email with the instructions if he wanted me to.

So now a little cool breeze is still flowing into the tunnel. With the torch, I can only see a few feet in front of me, but at least the ground is not muddy anymore.

Here, the ground is made of rock. In fact, I’m surrounded by rock. It feels a little claustrophobic, although I’m used to small spaces.

Now, this rock ground… Something about it is unusual. It’s flat and completely even—unlike regular caves, where there are natural variations on the surface of the ground.

Someone has obviously taken enough care to even sand down the hard, rock ground until it’s level.

This is crazy.

I mean, it was already crazy before, when I was volunteering to take on my father’s punishment and let whoever this guy is imprison me.

But now… Now, it has gone up a few levels in crazy.

Secret doors and hidden tunnels? I thought these things only existed in the movies.

Now, to find out they’re real and they’re still in use? That blows my mind.

Add to that the fact that this place is within walking distance from the town of Willowdale, and I just…

I don’t even know what to say anymore. I’ve run out of words to explain just how absurd everything has been since Father got home.

Is it weird if I say that even though this secret tunnel looks old and sinister, but it kind of improves my impression of whoever is behind all this?

I’ve always been into mystery books—detectives and stuff. Little clandestine routes appeal to me on a deep level.

When I was little and my father was away on business, my sisters would pick on me. They’d say mean things about me, and sometimes they’d even lock me inside the closet when they were particularly angry at me.

So I’ve always wished for a space of my own, hidden from view. A place where I could read in peace, where nobody could find me.

I can’t believe Father didn’t mention this cool rock tunnel to me. He knows I love this kind of…

Wait… No, actually I can believe it.

He probably knew that I’d get curious and try to find this place if he’d told me.

But Father is grossly overestimating me if he thinks I can find this secret tunnel on my own, without any directions.

But how did he get here?

He didn’t mention how he came upon the palace—only that he did.

I should remember to ask him next time we see each other. Maybe I’ll keep a notebook with all the things I want to ask Father, so I won’t miss anything when we meet.

My insides feel heavy as lead. I take a deep breath and let out a big exhale, but my lungs still feel compressed.

The stale air inside the tunnel doesn’t help. As cool as this place is, it doesn’t exactly have the best ventilation.

I seem to have reached the end of the tunnel. The narrow path has been getting bigger and bigger. Where I am, there’s a five-foot space between me and either wall. The rock ceiling is about three feet above me.

In front of me is a big wall. A big, red, hard wall of rock.

I hold my torch to the wall, checking to see if there’s any opening for me to go through.

I pull out my phone and check for new emails. I did set up a notification sound, but it’s possible I missed it because I was so fascinated by the tunnel.

But there’s not even one bar of signal on my phone.

This can’t be it. This can’t be the end of the road.

From his emails, this guy seems to be well-prepared. He appears to be a man with a plan.

There has to be something else.

I scan my surroundings and spot a piece of paper taped to the rock on one corner of the wall in front of me. In a neat cursive, it says:

I put my hand on the paper, my heart and mind conflicted.

I really want to push the rock to reveal more secrets, but should I really be so eager to meet the man who has threatened my father with jail and is blackmailing me?

On the other hand, even though the charge is laughable, Father did break the law. And so far, the sender of the emails has been courteous. Maybe he’s a kind person who wants to give our family a chance to right the wrong that Father has done?

That said… it’s unlikely that someone that benevolent would resort to blackmail.

Besides, I have no idea why he’s even chosen me. Why not contact Irina, or Clara?

They’ve always fared better with boys, charming them and laughing with them, while I have my nose buried in a book as I occasionally watch them from a distance. They also dress themselves in the latest fashion (as much as we can afford it) and paint their faces with make-up.

I don’t understand why he’d choose me. Out of all the guys in the town, there’s only one who has overlooked my sisters to pursue me. I’m too weird for all the other men in our sleepy little town.

Oh, no… This guy, he’s not Graham, is he?

I’d hate to owe something this big to Graham.

But this theory is not too far-fetched. Graham’s family has lived in Willowdale for generations, which is why his father is the Chief of Police and his uncles also hold important government positions. It’s possible that they have a secret place in the woods.

Whoever he is, I guess I’ll have to meet him and listen to what he wants.

So I press on the piece of white paper, and the rock wall moves to the side, the sound heavy and dull.

My jaw drops open. I can’t believe this.

I glance at my hand as the wall continues to slide, making a deafening noise. I must’ve touched some kind of a lever. There has to be a trigger mechanism.

But I can’t focus on my thoughts. I can’t care too much about the exact system that governs these secret doors.

Because as the rock wall disappears, I see something that takes my breath away. Literally. I feel like I have to take deep breaths to deal with the opulence in front of me.

“Welcome, Miss Wilson,” says a male voice, startling me.

Is this the guy who’s been sending me emails? But he seems too polite to be the same person. In the emails, he calls me Rosemary. He’s even called me a “good girl.”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the same voice says.

I gingerly step forward, past the bit of rock wall that’s sticking out.

Is there more than one person? Who’s “we”?

I turn to the side and find a tall man. He’s the most formal man I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a three-piece suit: black jacket and pants, as well as a grey vest. A crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie complete the look. He’s also wearing a pair of white gloves.

The man seems to be in his sixties. The color of his thinning hair matches the color of his gloves.

“My name is Albert,” he says, smiling. Lines appear on the skin around his kind blue eyes. “Welcome to Ardglass Palace.”

I look around me, my mouth still hanging open. It takes me a while to understand what the man is saying.

No wonder Father said it was like a dream. He told us the rose he stole was the only proof that everything had happened the way he remembered. And now I understand why.

“Wait, did you say ‘palace’?” I ask, tearing my gaze off the beautiful interior to take a good look at Albert.

“Yes, Miss Wilson. This is Ardglass Palace, the residence of the crown prince.”