“Go ahead, Spiritualist,” she said, her pale face impassive. “The lamp’s more for you than for us.”
Had that sentence come from Eli, Miranda would have brushed it off as bluster, but the strange glitter in Nico’s eyes left no doubt in her mind that the girl spoke the truth. With a muttered thanks, Miranda slipped by, pressing herself against the grimy wall to make sure she didn’t brush the strange, moving coat again, and hurried into the adjacent cellar where Eli was already popping the next door.
After that, Miranda kept as close to Eli as her pride could bear, desperate to stay in the tiny circle of light. The next door led to another cellar, which led to another. Sometimes they would walk through a short tunnel, crossing under a road, Miranda guessed, and then it was on to another door and another person’s hoard of vegetables. Mostly, the cellars were pitch black, but a few times they would open a door to see light streaming through the floorboards above their heads. When this happened, Eli would close the shutter on his lamp and they would scurry to the next cellar like mice in a larder.
One room, however, was nearly disastrous. After a long series of dusty, empty cellars, Eli had picked up the pace. Then, after finding a door that wasn’t locked at all, he opened one right next to cook picking out vegetables for supper. They all froze in the doorway, and Miranda was sure their game was up. However, nothing happened. Minutes passed, and the cook just kept sorting through vegetables, singing in an off-key, nasal voice, not a foot away from them. Finally, she finished picking her potatoes and, still singing, tromped up the ladder, her swollen ankles wobbling unsteadily as she swung her armful of tubers in time to her song, and Miranda realized the cook was sodden drunk.
“Thank the Powers for cooking wine,” Eli said when the cook closed the door behind her. “Let’s go.”
After almost half an hour of navigating the endless maze of doors, the cellars took a noticeable turn for the affluent. The floors shifted from hard-packed dirt to laid stone, and there were wine casks and brandy stores as well as the standard potatoes and beets.
“Getting close now,” Eli whispered, lowering the shutter on his small lamp until it gave off only a splinter of light.
As they passed from cellar to cellar, Miranda began to wonder how they would know the castle door when they saw it. Every cellar they entered now seemed to have two or more locked doors leading off it. It wouldn’t surprise her if the nobles had their own network of secret tunnels down here, running from house to house to facilitate liaisons and any other secret activities the rich indulged in. As each cellar led to another just like it, she began to get the panicky feeling that they were lost in the underground maze of passages, going around and around in circles forever. Then, Eli opened a triple-locked door, and Miranda realized she needn’t have worried.
At the end of the next cellar was a heavy iron door. It was the same size as the other cellar doors, but the stone wall it was set in looked both older and sturdier than the walls around it. At the door’s center, set so deep Miranda could have stuck her finger up to the first knuckle into the grooves, was the seal of House Allaze.
Josef snorted. “I thought this was supposed to be a secret entrance.”
“Secret from outsiders, yes,” Eli said. “But you don’t want some maid or delivery boy coming down here and opening it by mistake.”
“No chance of that.” Miranda shook her head. “How do we get it open?”
“Leave that to me,” Eli announced. He reached into the small leather bag he wore under his valet coat and pulled out two small glass bottles filled with clear liquid. “Two weak acids,” he said, holding the bottles up, “used in metal working to etch patterns. Normally, it would take either of these a month to go through that much metal. However, these particular bottles of acid happen to hate each other.”
“Hate each other?” Miranda frowned. “How did that happen?”
Eli swirled the bottles innocently. “I might have played the gossipmonger a bit too well. You see, acid spirits, though volatile and dangerous, aren’t very bright. They are, however, very quick-tempered.” As he spoke, the liquid began to slosh. Just a little at first, so that Miranda thought it was because of Eli’s swirling, but by the time he finished speaking, the acids were practically boiling in their bottles.
“Now,” Eli said, shaking the bottles violently, “we just have to get them good and mad, and—” He hurled both bottles at the door, landing them smack on top of each other. The glass shattered, and the acids fell on each other with a roar, sinking through the iron door like boiling water through fresh snow.