Grace checked her watch.

“It is ten-fifteen,” she said.

“You have forty-five minutes before Harrison goes back to his study to finalize the daily reports.”

“Go.”

Matteo gave my shoulder a brief, encouraging squeeze before he followed Grace out of the parlor.

I was alone in the dark room.

The single lamp cast long, distorted shadows across the dust-covered chairs.

I pulled my dark woolen shawl tighter around my shoulders.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.

The floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I crossed the parlor toward the service corridor.

The air grew colder as I moved away from the heated sections of the house.

The service corridor was narrow, its walls painted a drab green that had peeled in long strips near the baseboards.

I reached the pantry door, the brass knob cold and greasy in my palm.

I turned it slowly, easing the door open to avoid the squeak of the hinges.

Inside, the shelves were empty, save for a few rusted tin cans and broken jars.

At the back of the pantry, behind a stack of wooden crates, was the low wooden door.