“You cleared the cabinets, Miranda,” I said, walking toward the roll-top desk.

“But you didn’t know about the desk.”

I placed my hand on the cold wood of the desk, feeling the grain.

“My grandfather told me about this room,” I said.

“He helped Arthur move this desk in forty years ago.”

I reached for the drawer on the right side of the desk.

It was locked, but I had the key.

I inserted the smallest key from the ring and turned it.

The lock clicked open.

I pulled the drawer, the wood groaning slightly from years of disuse.

Inside lay only dust and a few dried-up inkwells.

“See?” Miranda laughed, a sharp, desperate sound.

“There is nothing here.”

I smiled faintly, keeping my hand inside the drawer.

I felt along the back panel, searching for the small wooden notch my grandfather had described.

My fingers brushed against a tiny lever hidden in the shadow of the drawer’s frame.

I pressed it.

A soft click echoed in the quiet library.

The back panel of the drawer popped forward, revealing a narrow compartment behind it.