"The Transylvanian and Carpathian regions have always been... tumultuous, I suppose." Francis sounds a little distant, as if remembering something he might have read long ago, but his eyes are drawn still to that darkness, the long spiral of the stairs descending into oblivion. His frown has deepened a little. "Incursions by the Turks, and by the Russians, of course, and skirmishes of various kinds. I suppose it's quite understandable that even in such a defensible place, a lord might want a hiding-space."

It makes perfect sense, as does the idea of a servants' stair being hidden and merely less-used than others. So why does the sight of that darkness, that cold corridor, make the hair on the back of his neck prickle uneasily, and why is he still half struck by wonder?

Francis clears his throat, pushing his hair back with both hands, and looks back at Thomas. "I suppose," he says, a little reluctantly, "that we shan't know until we see where it leads. Shall I go first, or will you?"