The key slid into the lock with a heavy, metallic click.

She turned the handle and pushed the door open, revealing the dark, shadow-filled room inside.

“Get in,” Miranda said.

I stepped over the threshold into the cold air of the library.

The scent of dry paper, aged leather, and stale lemon polish washed over me.

Miranda shoved me forward, her grip finally releasing my wrist.

I stumbled slightly but kept my balance, my flat housekeeping shoes gripping the polished hardwood floor.

Behind us, Julian entered and closed the heavy oak door.

The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Turn on the lights, Julian,” Miranda commanded, her voice thin and sharp.

A lamp on the massive mahogany desk flickered to life, casting long, distorted shadows across the rows of leather-bound books.

The room had not been dusted in years.

A thin layer of grey grime covered the glass panes of the bookcases and the bronze bust of Arthur Sterling in the corner.

Miranda stood before me, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her silk gown.