She didn’t look back at me, but her pace was deliberate, ensuring I didn’t trip in the dark.

We reached the basement level.

The concrete floor was cold enough to penetrate the thin soles of my shoes.

The smell of dust, old coal, and damp concrete filled my nose.

Margaret pulled a heavy iron key from her apron pocket.

She unlocked the thick oak door to the wine cellar.

Inside, rows of dusty bottles stretched into the dark.

“In here, quickly,” she said.

Margaret led us to the very back of the cellar, where the oldest wooden crates were stacked.

She reached behind a dusty rack of Pinot Noir.

There was a dull, metallic click.

A section of the heavy shelving swung inward, revealing a narrow gap in the limestone wall.

I stepped through first, my hands trembling.

The space inside was small, barely larger than a pantry.

It smelled of dried lavender and old paper.

Margaret followed us, pulling the shelving unit shut behind her.

The darkness was absolute for a second before Margaret switched on a small, battery-powered lantern.