She went back to the spinning tile. Now it was still. She traced her finger along its surface. There—a second arrow. Not carved by any human hand, but worn by centuries of moisture and pressure into a subtle grain. The arrow pointed toward the pantry.
Elena smiled. She didn’t put the medallion in the hole. Instead, she placed the rotated tile back into its new alignment—23 degrees off from the others. Then she mortared it in place. wil tile xxx
Elena knelt. The hole was a perfect hexagon, about the size of her palm. Around it, the 18th-century tiles fit snugly, except for this one stubborn absence. She went back to the spinning tile