Palace of Silver (The Nissera Chronicles #3) - Hannah West Page 0,82
two rooms before I recognized the bulky outline and wavy hair of Lord Orturio, asleep and heavily snoring. He had not even dressed for bed, instead shedding only his boots and outer layers.
I extracted the master key and held my breath as it slid comfortably into the lock. Though I’d expected it, the muffled click almost made me leap out of my skin. I opened the door and slipped inside.
The master’s bedchamber was decorated in deep purple and dark wood. Opaque curtains were draped around the bed and tied to the posts, giving me a bit of secrecy.
I tiptoed to his nightstand and carefully slid the drawer open. There were pieces of parchment and an Agrimas prayer book, but no keys. Clenching my teeth, I closed the drawer and looked around.
The silk-trimmed gray jerkin he’d worn this morning lay over a purple armchair at the far side of the bed. I tread lightly over the rugs and paused behind the bunched curtains of the canopy bed, feeling safe and hidden. Finally, I convinced myself to reach for the jerkin. I took a step out from my refuge and patted the right pocket. I felt the lumpy, hard shape of his key ring.
Instead of extracting so many clanging bits of metal, I swiped the entire garment, but the other pocket gaped open. Two coins tumbled out and hit the rug with a muted clang.
Orturio’s snore cut off. I jumped back behind the curtain with the garment.
I heard the covers swish as Orturio stirred. The bed frame groaned with his shifting weight. I thought for sure I would see his thick legs toss over the edge. But a few beats later, the snoring resumed.
After I snuck out and closed the door, I clenched the outline of the large cellar key through the fabric. One step closer to freedom.
Tucking Lucrez’s keys in the empty pocket, I folded the jerkin over my arm and tiptoed downstairs to the dining room. It was empty, but embers blazed in the hearth grate. A bronze oil lamp sat on the mantel. I breathed the fire back to life just enough to light the lamp’s braided wick.
My stocking-clad feet were numb by the time I limped to the studded door leading to the cellar. The largest key on the ring fit gloriously into place.
The lamplight barely penetrated the cavernous dark of the stairway leading underground.
I locked the door behind and me and doddered down. When I reached the dirt floor, I removed my socks and left the jerkin behind. Bare feet would be easier to wash without anyone noticing.
Finally, I faced the darkness. A jolt of fear worked its way between my shoulders. I took a step, raising the lamp to search by its pitiful glow.
What exactly was I looking for? A hidden door? A hollow barrel?
Mathis’s appearance had distracted me from absorbing details yesterday, but I at least recalled the layout of the cellar. It was long and narrow, with two or three rows of vats and barrels on either side of the main aisle. On one end lengthwise, there was the table and the marble shrine. On the opposite wall, I remembered seeing a door large enough to accommodate the transfer of large equipment.
This door I found easily. It was barred from the inside with a heavy plank.
I peered through the crack around the doorframe—how I tired of looking at the world through openings in walls and doors, wagons and ship cabins—and found an outer cellar flooded with moonlight. It contained a large mechanical winepress and a sorting table lined with buckets. But more importantly, it opened up to the outside on the far end, where two hound dogs sprawled on the ground, their ribs rising and falling in sleep.
One of them lifted its head and stared in my direction.
Breathless, motionless, I waited. It would but take a single loud bay to stir the household.
The dog dropped its head, deciding there was no threat after all. I shuffled back from the door, tucking the knowledge of this potential escape route away.
I crossed to the shrine at the other end of the cellar. I thought of my own hiding place for my elicrin stone back in Beyrian: inside my velvet-lined jewelry case, where my most valuable possessions resided alongside letters from people I loved, including an old one from my father that had browned and crinkled from the oil on my fingers. People tended to hoard their most sacred things in one place.