It was a small, inconspicuous door painted the same color as the wallpaper.

It led to a narrow service staircase used by the staff.

My mother had always told me to look for the service exits in old houses.

“The rich always want their servants invisible,” she used to tell me when I was a child.

“That is where you run when the world catches fire.”

I opened the wooden door slowly, the hinges giving a tiny squeak.

The narrow spiral staircase was dark and smelled of old wax and dust.

Bishop went first.

His claws made soft, rhythmic clicks on the wooden steps.

I followed him closely, holding the cold iron railing to keep from slipping in the dark.

From the main hallway upstairs, I heard men speaking in gruff, hurried tones.

“Check the east wing,” a man’s voice ordered.

“Vance wants the girl alive.”

“But he did not say she had to be unbroken.”

I shivered, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders.

We reached the bottom of the stairs.

The door opened into a small pantry behind the main kitchen.