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“No—”

“It… it feels as if they are.”

His face had gone pale, just as it had in the stairway of her apartment when he’d shuddered at the sight of that tiny closet. And, now that she considered it, perhaps he’d thought the bedroom she’d given him was too small and had illusioned the ceilings higher not because he was a snob—oh, she’d been completely mistaken about that—but because small spaces made him anxious.

“It’s okay,” she told him, not at all sure what to say or do. They couldn’t very well barge back into the room while that couple was kissing.

She waved her hand, releasing motes of golden dust. Just enough to confirm the passageway continued behind them. Like the other hidden corridors they’d found, there had to be another way out. One that was draped in silken cobwebs and crawling with spiders. No, this wasn’t her favorite place either.

“Come on.” In the soft light, the rings under Penbrook’s eyes appeared so harsh and dark, his confidence shaken. Gently, Fia took his hand. “We’ll follow the passage to its end.”

He said nothing, so the only sounds were the creaking of the floors under their feet (or was that the squeaking of mice?) and his too-fast breaths against her back.

“If it helps, close your eyes,” Fia whispered, anticipating the unwanted tickle of a mouse’s tail with every step—and smiling softly at the thought of the day he’d called her a mouse. She felt like one now, slipping through the walls. “Imagine yourself in an open space.”

“Ah, somewhere like Fortune’s End?” She could hear the grin in his voice even if she couldn’t see it, his dark humor still humming there beneath his dread.

“I might recommend anywhere other than a cemetery.”

His fingers tightened around her own, which she took as a sign that he’d shut his eyes. And so they tiptoed along, Fia in the lead, cringing away from the dusty webs as she went, no evidence of another exit. Not yet. Then her foot met air.

Throwing one hand to the wall, she braced herself before she could tumble forward.

“There’s a staircase,” she warned, and they descended carefully in the gloom. Down one rickety flight, then another, winding past unseen rooms.

When they reached a landing, Penbrook bumped into her back. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just, your hair smells like apples.”

Her step stuttered for a moment, then she shuffled along. “Apples?”

“Yes.” His voice was so soft, and slightly nervous too, caught up in the space between walls. “And I’m telling myself that we’re not here. We’re in an apple orchard. We’re slipping between the trees.”

His wide-open space.

“You have blossoms in your hair,” he said quietly, as though he could imagine every detail.

She let her fingers trail over the wall, searching for a gap that would signal their way out, because it would have been too easy for her to turn around and step right into Penbrook’s arms, imagining herself beneath those apple trees too.

“Oh!” Her toes bumped sharply against a wall, and her hand flew out.

Maybe there was a more delicate way to spring open the secret door, which, she presumed, led back to the main part of the house, but it was too late for that. They spilled out of the passageway and onto the floor, Penbrook catching himself before his body could crush too heavily against Fia. Her lungs constricted anyway, all the air caught in her chest. He opened his eyes, looking down at her, both of them frozen and listening and breathing and breathing and breathing each other’s breaths, waiting to see if anyone heard them.

And then they were laughing.

“You have dust on your nose,” Fia snickered, and it was so close to her own. As were his lips.

“You…,” Penbrook began, and it seemed he held so much in that word. In the dim, he was all she could see. All she could feel. So easily, he might bend closer and press his mouth to her own. Oh.

Overly conscious of their proximity, Fia tilted her head purposely to the side.

“I was only…” Penbrook drew back. “That is, you have a cobweb in your hair.”

No more apple blossoms.

Leaning on one arm, he used his other hand to brush the frail webbing away. Then he stood, his vulnerabilities neatly swept aside now that they were out of the narrow passage. Or maybe he’d forced them back, the way she kept trying to do with her own tender feelings. He offered his hand, but Fia climbed to her feet without taking it.

“I’ve got it,” she said lightly, batting dust from her skirts and peering around the room so she didn’t have to look at him.

Whoever had built that small library so long ago must have liked midnight snacks, as the passageway had led them to the kitchen, with a large wood-block island and so many cupboards, a squat oven, and windows streaked with grime. Fia wondered how Sebastian lived like this, then decided he likely never ventured here and kept to the quiet spot he’d carved out upstairs. Grabbing an old dish towel left on the counter, she wiped clear a circle of glass, just enough to peer through. Out in the garden, the ball went on without them.