He makes it sound very casual, but I know what he’s really doing — giving himself an excuse to stay out after dark for the next few nights, until the full moon has come and passed.
→ Dervish leaves at 21:48 precisely. He sticks his head in my room as he’s going and laughingly tells me not to wait up. I smile weakly in reply and say nothing about the fact that he hasn’t changed his clothes, slipped on a nice pair of shoes, combed his hair or sprayed under his arms with deodorant — all the things he would have done if he’d truly been going out on the pull.
My uncle has a lot to learn about the art of espionage!
→ At the cellar door. Hesitant. I’d rather do this by daylight. Going down this late at night, not knowing how long Dervish will be away or when to expect him back, is far from ideal. I consider waiting until morning, when he goes for his daily jog and I have a guaranteed three-quarters of an hour to play with.
But I’ve had almost no sleep these last two nights. I’m exhausted. I might snore through my alarm in the morning and wake late, the opportunity missed. I don’t dare wait.
Deep breath. Tight grip on my axe. Descent.
→ The wall on either side of the rack is solid, but when I remove one of the bottles, reach in and rap on the ‘bricks’ behind, there’s a dull echo. Grunting, I grab hold of the edge of the rack and pull.
It doesn’t budge.
I exert more pressure — same result. Try the other side — no go.
Stepping back. Analysing the problem. Look closer at the wooden rack. There’s a thin divide down the middle. I grab sections of the rack on either side of the divide and try prying them apart. They give slightly — a few millimetres — then hold firm.
Brute force isn’t the answer. I’m convinced the divide is the key. I just have to figure out how to use it.
Studying the rack. My fingers creep to the top of one of the bottles. Idly twirl it left and right while my brain’s ticking over.
I’m taking a step to the left, to check the sides of the rack again, when I stop and gaze down at my fingers. I half-pull the bottle out, then push it back in. Smiling, I grab, twist and pull the bottle above, then the one beside it. All are loose, but I’m sure, if I go through every bottle on the rack, I’ll find one that isn’t.
Methodical. Start from the bottom left, even though I suspect the device will be situated higher, towards the middle. Checking each bottle in turn, twisting it, tugging it out, placing it back in its original position. I’m leaving fingerprints all over the place — should have worn gloves — but I’ll worry about that later.
All the way across to the right. Up a row. Then all the way across to the left. Up and across. Up and across. Up and…
→ Getting higher. Minutes ticking away. I quicken my pace, anxious to make progress. Pull too hard on one bottle. It comes flying out and drops to the floor. I collapse after it and catch it just before it hits and smashes into a hundred pieces. Place it back on the rack with shaking fingers. Work at a steady, cautious pace after that.
→ Past the midway mark. Four rows from the top, on the right. My hopes fading. Trying to think of some other way to part the racks. Half-tempted to take my axe to the wood and chop through. I know that’s crazy, but I’m so wound up, I might just–
Seventh bottle from the right. I twist but it doesn’t move. Everything stops. My breath catches. Step up close to the bottle and examine it. No different to any of the others, except it’s jammed tight into place. I give it a harder shake, to make sure it isn’t simply stuck. No movement at all.
I try pulling the bottle out — it doesn’t give.
Studying it again, frowning. My eyes focus on the cork. I grin. Put the tip of my right index finger to the face of the cork. Push gently.
The cork sinks into the bottle. A loud click. The two halves of the wine rack slide apart, revealing a dark corridor angling gently downwards. I do a quick mental geographical check — it leads in the direction of the sheds.
I act before fear has a chance to deter me. Step forward. Cross the threshold. Advance.
→ I’ve taken no more than eight or nine steps when the wine rack closes behind me with a soft slishing sound. I’m plunged into total darkness. My heart leaps. My hands strike out to touch the walls on either side, just so I have the feel of something real. Split-seconds away from complete panic when…
…lights flicker on overhead. Weak, dull lights, but enough to illuminate the tight, cramped corridor.
My heart settles. My eyes devour the light. I smile feebly to myself. Turn and retrace my steps. Examining the back of the wine rack, thinking about how I’m going to get out later. A button in the wall to my left. I press it. The lights flick off and the rack slides open.
I step through to the wine cellar, wait for the rack to close, then open it again and return to the corridor. This time I keep on walking when the rack closes and I’m plunged into temporary darkness. Moments later, when the lights flicker on, I glance up at them wryly and spare them a carefree half-wave.
Grubbs Grady — Mr Cool!
→ The corridor runs straight and evens out after twenty metres or so. Narrow but high. Moss grows along the walls and ceiling. The floor’s lined with a thin layer of gravel. By the moss, I reckon this tunnel must be decades old, if not centuries.
The tunnel ends at a thick, dark wooden door, with a large gold ring for a handle. I press my ear to the door but can hear nothing through it. If Dervish is in the room beyond, it’ll be impossible to surprise him. I’ll just have to cross my fingers and hope for the best.
I take hold of the huge gold ring. Tug firmly. The door creaks open. I enter.
→ A large room, at least the size of the wine cellar. Sturdy wooden beams support the ceiling. Burning torches set in the walls — no electrical lights. A foul stench.
I leave the door open as I step into the room and study my surroundings. A steel cage dominates the room, set close to the wall on my right. Almost the height of the ceiling, thin bars set close together, bolted to the floor in all four corners.
Inside the cage — the deer. Still bound and struggling weakly. Lying in a pool of its own waste. Which explains the smell.
Advancing, giving the cage a wide berth. There are three small tables in this subterranean room. Legs carved to resemble human forms. Surfaces overflowing with books. A chess set half hangs off of one of them. Pens. Writing pads. Candles waiting to be lit.
Ropes and chains in one corner. No weapons. I thought there’d be axes and swords, like inside the house, but there isn’t even a stick.
A chest — treasure! I snap it open in a rush, treasure-lust momentarily getting the better of my other senses. Is this Lord Sheftree’s legendary hoard?
Bitter disappointment — the chest’s filled with old books and rolled-up parchment. I scrape the paper aside and explore the bottom of the chest, in search of even a single gold nugget or coin, but come up empty-handed.
Circling the room. Get close to the cage this time. Note a bowl set in the floor — for water, I assume. A door with two locks, neither currently bolted. No hatch for pushing food through.
I consider dragging out the deer and setting it free, but that would reveal my having been here. I don’t want Dervish knowing I’m wise to this set-up. Not sure what he’d do to me if he found out.
Examining the tables. On two of them the books are layered with dust, the candles have never been used, and the chairs are shoved in tight. On the other there are less books, a few are open, the two large candles on the table are both half burnt down, and the chair’s been pulled out.
I focus