The Hudson Valley was dark tonight.

No lights from the neighboring estates were visible through the thick fog.

I ran along the stone foundation of the main house.

My boots sank into the mud.

The rain was coming down in sheets now.

I reached the library window.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight.

I found the small brass latch hidden under the stone sill.

I pressed it.

The window pane slid open with a soft click.

I climbed through, landing silently on the thick Persian rug.

The library was dark and smelled of old leather and woodsmoke.

The fireplace was cold.

I stood still, listening.

Above me, I heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking.

Someone was walking in the corridor above the library.

Their footsteps were heavy, measured.

It was not Nora.

Nora walked with a light, familiar step.

This was a soldier.

I moved to the bookcase on the north wall.

I reached behind the third shelf and pulled the leather-bound volume of local history.

The bookcase swung outward.

The dark passage behind it smelled of cedar and dust.