Mesterica found the panel.
Lower left.
Slide.
The wall gave on a seam that had no business being that clean after a war.
Cold air came out.
Old soap. Wet stone. A sweet film-smell that did not belong in a castle.
Rigel pointed at Cynthia.
"He stays in the chair. If he adds a sentence, you do what you said."
Cynthia did not argue.
Erna arrived with the bag held out from her body like it might bite.
It was moving in short, eager twitches.
"If this hatches on me I quit."
"It won't hatch," Rigel said.
"It wants a neck."
They went in single file.
Mesterica first.
Rigel.
Erna last, because he wanted the bag where he could hear it and she wanted a wall at her back.
The passage was narrow enough that shoulders scraped.
Servant marks on the stone.
Soot.
A child's smudge at waist height, fresh.
Footsteps ahead.
Footsteps behind, fainter, going the other way at the same time.
Erna muttered, "I hate this job."
"Bill me."
The front steps stopped.
