Volumes fell into her fingers from every shelf—save one.
She returned to that first shelf, crouching until she was eye level. The bookslookedreal enough. Perhaps they were just stuck?
Her fingertips ran across the dusty spines, gliding up to where the binding met the pages, letting the uneven paper rub against her skin. With as much force as she could muster, she yanked at the biggest book on the top shelf.
It did not budge. Not only did it not budge, the effort threw Evangeline off-kilter, rocking her back on her heels. Arms flailing like windmills, she pitched forward in a frantic attempt to regain her balance. She fell hard against the bookcase, crashing her shoulder against the immobile top shelf. The entire bookcase swung inward. Inward—into thewall.
And Evangeline tumbled with it.
After a helpless sneezing fit, she picked herself up, smacked the dust from her gown, and stared in wonder.
No wonder her room had no windows.
The secret passageway—for, of course, it was that—hid all the windows. Small circles of glass dotted the wall above her head, much like the portholes of a passenger ship. Evangeline wished she were tall enough to peer through them, to see what lay behind the mansion. Undoubtedly, the windows had been positioned to prevent just such an action, so that whoever lurked between the walls could skulk about undetected.
Had she truly believed in Mr. Lioncroft’s complete innocence? What kind of man dwelled in a mausoleum like Blackberry Manor, creeping about betwixt the walls? Had he—had he spied on her? In her bed? As she slept?
Gooseflesh rippled up her arms. As she hugged herself, her hip bumped against the open bookcase.
And the concealed door swung closed.
The thick walls swallowed Evangeline’s cry as she flattened her palms against the dirt and cobwebs, scrabbling her fingernails for purchase. Nothing. How could there be nothing? The door swung inward, so certainly there must be a knob, a handle, some mechanism by which to reopen access to her chamber. Still nothing. She banged with her fists, screaming for someone to help her.
No one came.
She scratched at the cracks until her fingers bled before finally admitting defeat. This was even worse than being locked in the cursed pantry. She sagged against the wall, her back to the unyielding surface, her face tilted toward those tiny round windows high above her head.
Trapped in the walls. Oh, God. Oh, God. She hated closed spaces. She hated dark, closed spaces. And she hated beingtrappedin dark, closed spaces the most. No solution presented itself but to continue on the passageway and hope to find an exit.
With a tiny, distressed moan, she inched down the dusty corridor. How did Mr. Lioncroft fit inside the narrow passage without his shoulders scraping against the sides? Evangeline had to be careful not to keep grating her knuckles against the rough walls. She would’ve put her gloves back on if she’d known she was about to tumble through a bookcase. In fact, she would’ve fled the manor altogether.
After walking no more than five minutes, the path diverged. She could either continue straight, following the feeble light cast by the small windows overhead, or she could turn right and venture into darkness.
Evangeline chewed her lip, then grimaced when her skin tasted like dust. She assumed straight led further along the guest wing. As hers was one of the last occupied chambers, she doubted much help lay in that direction.
She squared her shoulders and strode into the shadows.
Chapter 15
Evangeline hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces into the dark, musty corridor before running into the first cobweb. By the time she’d clawed sticky strands from her cheeks for the third or fourth time, the idea of a secret passageway had gone from distressing to hellish.
Dust clogged her nostrils with each footstep. The dank passage narrowed, at times causing her to twist her arms before her stomach or edge sideways with her heels to one wall and her toes touching the other, pressing in on her the further she went.
Briefly, she considered turning around, but for what? There was nothing to return to but more dust and shadow and spiders. Her fingers still ached from scratching at the swinging door.
Inside the walls…walls which grew thicker, closer.
She drew a shaky breath. One would think years of her stepfather locking her into cramped, dark places would lessen the impact of such an environment, not fill her with instant terror. The vile pantry he preferred to keep her in was almost large enough to lay prone upon the floor, arms outstretched. Here in the walls, she barely fit upright and wouldn’t dare to lie upon the floor. At home, enough feeble light flickered around the edges of the pantry door to illuminate the shelves, the jars, the occasional rat. Nothing but blackness filled the sliver of space between the walls of Blackberry Manor.
Her fluttering heart was edging closer and closer to panic.
Hot tears stung at Evangeline’s eyes when she found herself at a crossroads. Which way should she go? She was trapped. Helpless.
She stood in the center of the intersection, reaching blindly with both hands. The opening straight ahead was as tight and narrow as the one she had just escaped. She refused to select that path. The passages to her left and right were wide enough to let her stand with her hands on her hips without fear of her elbows scraping against the rough walls.
Think, she commanded herself over the roaring in her ears.Right or left?
Eyes squeezed tight against the oppressive blackness, she did her best to picture the guest quarters in her mind. Behind her was her own room, an impossible distance away. To her left lay the furthest bedchambers, empty of guests. Before her was another passage too narrow to risk entering. To her right must be the other guest hall, leading to the Heatherbrooks’ and Rutherfords’ chambers—and possibly a murderer.
