Chapter 4 - The Tactical Use of Pancake Batter
The library door was indeed locked from the inside, the heavy brass latch resisting any standard turn. From within, Claire could hear the rhythmic, mechanical hum of a portable compressor and Leo’s high-pitched laugh.
“We have fifty gallons of water, Matteo!” Leo was yelling. “If she tries the key, we hit the glass panels!”
Claire didn't try the key. Instead, she walked down to the kitchen, retrieved a twenty-pound bag of unbleached flour, three cartons of eggs, and a large plastic bucket from the cleaning supply closet.
The estate's head chef, an elderly Italian woman named Maria, watched her with wide, terrified eyes. “Signora… what are you doing? The Master does not like mess in the west wing.”
“The Master told me to fix it,” Claire said, dumping ten pounds of flour into the bucket and adding enough water to create a thick, glue-like paste. “And sometimes logistics require a change in material.”
She lugged the bucket up the stairs, stopping outside the library doors. She didn't knock. She didn't shout. Instead, she found the old brass key from the ring Brandt had given her, inserted it into the lock, and turned it just enough to click.
A high-pressure stream of soapy water instantly erupted through the keyhole, hitting her directly in the chest, soaking her black sweater and splashing across her face.
Inside, three cheers went up. “Target hit! Target hit!”
Claire didn't wipe her face. She reached into the bucket, scooped up a massive, double-handed glob of the raw flour paste, and smeared it directly over the glass panels above the door handles, sealing the narrow gaps where the water was spraying out. Then, using the heavy wooden handle of the kitchen mop, she jammed it through the ornate iron scrollwork on the door, creating a secondary exterior brace that prevented the doors from swinging inward.
The hum of the compressor stopped.
“Hey!” Matteo’s voice came through the wood, slightly muffled now. “The door won't move! What did you do?”
“I’m making a giant pancake,” Claire called through the keyhole, her voice perfectly pleasant as she wiped a glob of wet flour from her cheek. “And until you three decide that you’re ready to eat your dinner like civilized human beings instead of pirates, you’re going to sit in that library with forty volumes of the Encyclopædia Britannica. The flour paste takes about four hours to dry into solid cement, by the way. I used the industrial stuff from the pantry.”
Silence fell over the library.
“You can’t do that,” Leo muttered, his voice losing its confident edge. “Our dad is Dominic Marchetti. He’ll have you thrown in the river.”
“Your dad is currently downstairs drinking scotch and trying to figure out why his business operations are easier than his household,” Claire replied, leaning her back against the reinforced library door, her soaked sweater freezing against her skin. “And honestly, boys? I’ve dealt with forty drunk men who thought they were God’s gift to the local bowling league. Your dad doesn't scare me, and you don't scare me. Now, who wants syrup on their waffles, and who wants to stay in the library until midnight?”
A small, quiet voice spoke from the bottom of the door panel—Nico.
“Matteo,” Nico whispered. “She’s using structural occlusion. We don't have the leverage to clear the lintel.”
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“Shut up, Nico!” Matteo hissed. Then, after a long, agonizing thirty seconds, the brass handle jiggled. “Miss Bennett? Leo says he’s hungry.”
“Excellent,” Claire said, pulling the mop handle free from the scrollwork. “The kitchen is downstairs. Grab the rags from the cart, boys. You’re cleaning the glass before you touch a single waffle.”
