Matteo grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the small arched doorway at the back of the workshop.

The door led down a narrow, unlit spiral staircase used by the estate staff.

We hurried down the stone steps, the air growing colder and damper as we descended.

My heart hammered against my ribs, the folded paper in my pocket pressing hard against my chest.

At the bottom of the stairs, Matteo pushed open a heavy wooden door that led into the old butler’s pantry.

The room was dark, smelling of dried lavender, polish, and old wood.

Rain lashed against the small high window, casting long, watery shadows across the rows of empty silver cabinets.

“They won’t look here immediately,” Matteo whispered, his breath coming in short gasps.

“But Harrison’s men will search the grounds soon.”

“We need to read the rest of the letter,” I said.

I pulled the parchment from my coat pocket, my fingers shaking in the dim light.

Matteo took a small brass flashlight from a drawer and clicked it on, pointing the beam onto the paper.

The light illuminated my mother’s neat, elegant handwriting.