Chapter 13: Voices Through The Wood
The dry, chalky scent of spilled flour filled my throat every time I drew a breath. The pantry was pitch black, save for the thin yellow knife-edge of light cutting horizontally across the floorboards beneath the heavy wooden door. Outside, the great house had settled into a deceptive hush, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm or a betrayal. I kept one hand pressed firmly against the small of my back, trying to ease the dull, persistent ache that had settled there after hours of standing and scrambling through the dark service corridors. My maroon uniform fabric was stiff with dust, and the white lace collar scratched against my neck.
Heavy, purposeful footsteps approached the outer kitchen, striking the linoleum with sharp, authoritative heels, followed by the heavier, duller thud of dress shoes. I froze, drawing my knees up slightly toward my swollen belly and holding my breath.
"The papers are signed by proxy through the estate trust loopholes," Elena’s voice hissed through the wood, clear and cold as winter glass. "It doesn’t matter if the court order arrives at the front gates by Monday morning. By then, the old man won't even be within county lines."
"And the ambulance?" Lorenzo’s low, gravelly baritone vibrated through the pantry wall, so close I could almost imagine the thick gold chain resting against his tailored black suit. "Is the transport secured?"
" Booked for four o’clock," Elena replied, her tone sharp with absolute efficiency. "Private medical transport. We list him as a critical transfer to the sanitentiary upstate under physician-ordered quarantine. No visitors, no phone calls, no outside inquiries. Once he’s out of this house, the foundation funds clear into our accounts by noon."
"Good," Lorenzo muttered, the sound of a heavy brass lighter clicking shut echoing faintly through the partition. "Make sure the back drive is clear of ice. I don't want any delays with the stretcher. The girl is locked away?"
"In the old buttery pantry," Elena scoffed. "Let her sit in the dark and think about her manners. When the morning shift arrives, we'll have her escorted off the property for theft of ledger documents. No one will listen to a dismissed maid."
Their footsteps receded slowly across the kitchen tiles, fading away down the eastern hall until the house fell back into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The weight of their words settled over me like lead. Four o'clock. They weren't just trying to isolate the old man; they were going to spirit him away before the attorney could serve the subpoena. If they moved him to that off-site facility, he’d disappear into their network of bribed physicians and forged addendums, and nobody would ever find him. The wrinkled hand that had rested against my stomach, the voice that had insisted She saved life, Lorenzo—it all echoed in my mind, demanding a response. I couldn't just sit here in the dark.
I pushed myself up from the flour sack, my joints stiff and aching, and crept blindly toward the rear wall of the walk-in pantry where the old timber shelving met the exterior wall. Behind the rows of empty canning jars and wooden crates sat the secondary access hatch—an old dwarf-sized door used decades ago for restocking firewood and coal from the cellar chutes before the estate converted to gas heating.
I felt along the perimeter of the low wooden panel until my fingers brushed cold, rusted iron. The latch was held shut by a sliding iron bar jammed into a dry-rotted bracket. Without a tool, it was immovable. My hand grazed the shelf above, knocking against a heavy metal shelf bracket left behind by maintenance.
Gripping the cold iron bracket like a lever, I wedged the flat end into the narrow crack between the hatch door and the frame. My heart thudded hard against my ribs, each beat sounding too loud in the confined space. I threw my weight against the metal, biting my lip to keep from crying out as the strain pulled sharply at my lower abdomen.
May you like
Crack.
The dry wood groaned, the rusted screw holding the old latch popping free with a sharp snap. I pulled the small door open, letting a rush of cold, damp basement air hit my face. Squeezing my shoulders through the narrow opening, I slipped out into the shadows of the dark kitchen just as the grandfather clock in the main hall began its deep, solemn toll for midnight.
