Nachtstürm Castle by Emily C.A. Snyder

Henry’s plan, and failing woefully – but he held on more tightly, speaking rapidly, urgently, occasionally pressing her fingers, and then going so far as to hold her hand to his heart.
    At this she looked up at him with alarm, and would have spoken – but that he silenced her with another kiss, and running to the other wall, listened to it as though it were made of glass and not stone. Catherine, for her part, heard nothing beyond the pounding in her ears, but she could not help recognising the word that spat from young Will’s mouth, nor the cynical mask that accompanied it: Edric was beyond that wall. With no more time to spare, young Will came to her, fumbling at his pocket, muttering whether to himself or to her she did not know, taking her hand and with another kiss, depositing in it something warm and golden.
    It was a locket. Glancing up to him, she perceived that he desired she would open it, and was unsurprised to find within her own image on one side – in the other a golden lock. Again he spoke, “Lucia,” and “cugini,” “promessi sposi” and “inglese” – as well as “Brandenburg” and “Nachtstürm” – once, much to her amusement, “romanzo Udolpho ,” and to her interest, “testamento,” and then, much to her confusion, “Frau Tilney” although he was not addressing her – and many times, “amore.” He pressed her hands together over the locket, his eyes welling with tears, and embraced her with more feeling than form.   Thus, with a parting glance, he slipped once more through the wall, and left her.
    Well!
    What could our heroine think beyond that: well!
    Well!   She thought as she stood staring at the doorless, windowless room around her – well!   Well!   She thought turning to look again at her painted double and then glancing at her image within the locket – well!   Well!   She thought, guiltily, touching her lips with shaking fingers – well.
    Having been, now, three times through the door in the wall, it was only a matter of a mere, terrified hour until Catherine found the latch to open the strange portal and she began the long climb back to her own apartment. The locket grew warmer yet as she held it – almost, she fancied, its intricate engravings burnt their patterns on her hand.   Having relied almost exclusively on her fancy in order to preserve her sanity that evening, Catherine fastened the locket about her throat where it seemed to burn a little less.
    At last by climbing to the top but one, she found their apartment – although she was at first disposed to turn back into the dank passage in search for her rooms again, for the suite before her stood as cheery and neat as though neither she nor Henry had ever stepped foot in it – much less some burglar of a violent tendency. A little fire burned on the hearth, the bed was well made, the chairs removed, the trunks repacked, the desk replaced – upon the table, even, there was a small dinner waiting.  
    This scene of pleasant domesticity, if anything, frightened our heroine more than the previous scene of utter ruin. Worse – Henry had not returned. Even worse, Catherine realized that she had dropped the last will and testament in the unknown corridor.   Having braved so many curious events that day, Catherine didn’t hesitate to run through the door and into the corridor, searching for the twist or turn she might have taken wrong.   Several times, she thought she found the place – but no familiar sheaf of papers did she find.   Nor did she feel she could continue when she was found by Helga some time later, who frowned and indicated by gesture that the Hour Was Late and Frau Tilney Should Be Abed.  
    Catherine allowed herself to be herded back to her rooms, still bereft of Henry.   And so being a sensible girl, despite her imagination, she took up a poker, ate her dinner, and went – if not to sleep, then to bed – the weapon in her hand. In time, the door opened again, silhouetting a