Twenty Eight
We move into the hallway with quiet, swift steps.
Right. Left. Down the three steps that always feel slightly off. Past the portraits of sisters who glare no matter what hour you pass. Right at the cold patch that bites the skin; Bella hisses softly and I squeeze her fingers. “Shh,” I mouth. She nods, face small and white in the lamp glow.
At the baseboard gap, I crouch, listening. Nothing. Good.
We keep going.
The service hall smells like starch and wet stone. The floor changes from rug to tile to cement. The lamps are different here—bare bulbs in cages. The wards don’t hum as loudly, or maybe they hum under the skin instead of over it, a pressure across the bones rather than a buzz at the surface. I don’t know which is worse.
We reach the heavy door I heard early thi
