But the old servant's passages—those haven't been used in decades. Father probably doesn't even remember they exist.
The wardrobe in my room is massive, ornate, and older than I am. I shove it aside, muscles straining, sweat beading on my forehead. It scrapes against the floor—too loud, much too loud—and I freeze, listening.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.
I keep pushing until the wardrobe reveals the small door behind it. The wood is old, the paint peeling. The handle sticks, then gives with a reluctant groan.
Stale air rushes out—thick with dust and age and secrets. The passage yawns before me, darker than dark.
I step inside. Pull the door closed behind me.
The darkness is absolute. Suffocating. I feel along the wall with trembling hands, finding the steep stairs by touch alone. They're narrow, twisting, carved directly into the stone. My fingers trace rough mortar and cold rock.
Down. Down. Each step careful, measured. One slip and I'll tumble, break my neck in the dark where no one will find me.
Cobwebs catch in my hair, across my face. I brush them away, skin crawling. Something skitters nearby—rats, probably. The sound echoes off the stone, making it impossible to tell how close.
The air grows colder. Damper. The smell changes from dust to earth, to the sharp tang of wine.
The cellar.
My foot hits flat ground, and I nearly sob with relief. Pale moonlight filters through high windows, just enough to see by. Rows of bottles glint like eyes. The floor is packed earth, cool under my feet.
I navigate between the racks, heading for the far corner. There—the old coal chute. Haven't used it since the house converted to gas heating, probably fifty years ago.
It's smaller than I remember. Much smaller.
But I'm desperate.
I grab the iron ring and pull. The door swings open with a metallic shriek that makes my teeth ache. I freeze, listening.
Silence.
The chute angles steeply. Stars glimmer through the opening at the top. Fresh air, cool and sweet, kisses my face.
Freedom.
I climb in feet-first. The metal is cold, rough with rust. It scrapes my sides as I wriggle upward, pushing with my feet, pulling with my hands. The space is so tight my ribs can barely expand to breathe.
For a terrifying moment, I'm stuck. Can't move forward or back. Panic claws at my throat.
Then something gives. I surge upward, tumbling out onto grass wet with dew.
I'm out. Actually out.
For a heartbeat, I just lie there, gasping. The sky above is vast and dark and full of stars. The air tastes like possibility.
Then—
A shout from inside the house. Muffled but distinct.
They know.
Adrenaline slams through me. I lurch to my feet and run.
The manicured lawn gives way to rougher ground. My socks are immediately soaked, cold seeping into my feet. But I don't stop. Can't stop.
The woods loom ahead—a dark wall of trees. I plunge in, branches whipping my face, catching in my hair. Thorns tear at my nightgown. I don't care.
