His grip is firm and protective, but there’s a subtle pressure there…
Is he testing my limits?I feign innocence and don’t pull away.
We move like that, his fingers entwined with mine, the space between us small and shrinking with every cautious step.
The stone walls seem to close in. The scent of mildew, dust, and something older—coal perhaps?—hangs in the air. We pass through another low archway. I duck toward the center, and my shoulder grazes his.
I point my free hand down the corridor. “Almost there.”
He stops.
I do, too.
The corridor is very tight here. I feel his breath. We’re inches apart. My pulse thunders.
He looks at me. I don’t avert my gaze.
His expression is unreadable.
I want to take a step back. I don’t.
Something electric passes between us.
Oh, come on, Eva!I scold myself.You know exactly what it is.
It’s that thing I keep pretending was a momentary madness, gone without a trace.
I draw in a shallow breath. “We should keep moving. The dungeon trapdoor should be just five meters ahead.”
How I manage to break eye contact and move away is beyond me.
We reach the trapdoor. The iron ring is stiff with rust, but it lifts with a reluctant groan. I turn the key. The trapdoor creaks open. Cold air wafts up from the darkness below. A folded wooden ladder lies against the opening.
Alex pulls it down and tests the rungs. “I’ll go first.”
I watch him disappear into the darkness, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the stone.
He calls up, “Solid footing!”
I step onto the ladder. The wood is cool under my palms, the descent steeper than I remembered. Then again, I’ve only been down here once, years ago.
When my shoes hit the packed stone floor, I take in the space. This oubliette is bigger than I recall. It’s wide, with a low vaulted ceiling and walls beaded with moisture. The air is colder here. Not just damp, but…moving, like a gentle current brushing my skin.
Alex tilts the flashlight beam toward the far wall. “What’s that?”
At first, I don’t see it. Then the light catches a thin gap in the stone, half hidden behind a stack of old wine crates. A faint draft slips through, carrying a sharp, familiar scent…Pine smoke?
I frown. “Probably just a vent. Old castles have them everywhere.”
“Vents don’t usually smell like someone’s wood stove,” he says.
The beam shifts, and I spot scuff marks on the stones behind the crates. Then a muted rustle breaks through the silence, like a small animal’s patter. Not from the corridor behind, but from the wall to our left.
I tilt my head. Alex does the same. Without thinking, we both lean toward the thin gap in the stones. The flashlight beam skims the wall, but whatever made the noise is tucked in shadow.
I hear Alex’s breath. It warms the side of my face, contrasting with the chill in the air. Our faces are inches apart.
“Maybe we just found Narnia,” I say to ease the tension.
