I pulled the heavy brass key from my pocket.

My hands were shaking, partly from the cold and partly from fear.

I walked up to the thick oak door of the gatehouse.

The wood was rough under my fingers, swollen from the river dampness.

I slid the key into the old iron keyhole.

It turned with a heavy, scraping click that seemed too loud in the quiet night.

I pushed the door open.

The hinges groaned, and the smell of dust and old paper drifted out.

I clicked on my flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness inside.

The room was small, containing only a wooden desk, a chair, and a stone fireplace.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of grey dust.

I walked over to the fireplace, recalling my grandmother’s words.

*Under the hearthstone, Clara.*

I knelt on the cold stone floor, the dust rising around me.

I began to feel along the edges of the heavy hearthstone.

It was loose.

I wedged my fingers beneath the stone and pried it upward.

It was heavy, but it moved, scraping against the floorboards.