If there was a key, there had to be a lock.

I knelt on the Persian rug, the cold air from the floorboards rising around me.

The front of the desk was carved with heavy scrollwork and floral patterns.

I ran my fingers along the bottom edge, feeling the grooves of the molding.

Nothing but dusty wood.

I crawled to the side of the desk, tracing the deep carvings of the legs.

Near the back right corner, my fingers caught on a small, smooth indentation.

I leaned closer, bringing my face near the floor to see.

Behind a carved mahogany leaf, there was a tiny, circular keyhole.

It was completely hidden from view unless you were looking for it from the floor.

My hand shook slightly as I lined up the brass key.

It slipped into the keyhole perfectly, sliding home with a soft metallic click.

I turned it clockwise.

A sharp, wooden snap echoed in the quiet room.

A small panel on the side of the desk popped open by a fraction of an inch.

I pulled the panel completely free, revealing a narrow, velvet-lined compartment.