The air down here smelled of concrete dust, old laundry detergent, and damp earth.

I knew these passages better than anyone; I spent hours down here carrying linens to the industrial washers.

We reached the heavy iron door that led to the service courtyard.

I pushed the bar code reader aside and used the manual brass key I kept on my apron ring.

The lock turned with a heavy, metallic click.

As I opened the door, a gust of freezing autumn air hit my face.

The wind from the Long Island Sound was bitter, carrying the scent of salt and rotting seaweed.

The sky above was a dark, bruised purple, heavy with clouds that blocked out the stars.

“This way,” I whispered.

I pointed toward the narrow gravel path that wound between the high stone walls and the overgrown boxwood hedges.

The flashlight Lorenzo gave me remained dark in my hand; we couldn’t risk the light.

We walked quickly, our feet making quiet crunching sounds on the wet gravel.

The rose garden lay ahead, a dark labyrinth of skeletal bushes and iron arches.