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Kathryn Darcy shrugs on her anger like an old winter coat you only get out of your dusty closet when the weather gets drastic. It's singed in places and doesn't fit quite right at her shoulders, but she needs it to brave the cold.
They may be willing to kill, but she's got something they want. The trick is making them think she'll give it to them. Even if she doesn't know what it is. Even if she has no idea how they even traced anything back to her and her friends.
The place they're taking her is protected, awfully so. Dogs ready to be freed when someone steps onto the grass, that is if they get over the ten foot walls first. She wouldn't bet on her friends managing to get in, which means she needs to find a way to get out, by herself. There's only so far she can go with the good girl act. Maybe a little farther if she acts all meek, but she's not sure the kind of person that kidnapped her is sensitive to that kind of thing...
The man that forces her to walk along the path straight to the huge mansion isn't particularly delicate, but she gives as bad as he shoves, shoving back each time she can. When the door opens on a woman in a French maid outfit, Kathryn can't help but wonder where the hell she ended up.
The place in itself feels smaller than its exterior, maybe because of the huge clutter and patterned walls giving it a sort of claustrophobic eerie feeling. To be fair, the military casually standing in the living room doesn't help. Kathryn still eyes every little piece of furniture and the decoration on them, frowning to herself.
She can't really tell from a distance or in passing, but she's half sure some of those are actual antiques? A conquistador's helmet, what she can gather is some South-American indigenous necklaces and jewellery... An actual idol protected by glass. She figures most of those are from the same time period, give or take a few centuries. Someone is seriously obsessed. Kathryn herself doesn't have that much about the eighteenth century at home, and she hyper fixated on piracy big time as a kid.
"Take her upstairs," the housekeeper says. "The Orinoco Room."
Kathryn bites her lip as a lightbulb goes off in her head. Okay, so everything in this room must be from that region; Venezuela. The helmet, she can't say for sure, but the rest of the antiques in the room share some symbols, and she only has that lead.
