“He is there,” I say, pointing at the closed door. “Andrés? Can you hear me?”

The boy turns my way for the first time. His long face is unreadable, but there is no fury in his eyes. Only grim determination. He steps through the door but remains just beyond it. Then he waves for me to follow, and the gesture seems almost reluctant.

“He wishes us to follow him into that room,” I say. “He is still angry, but he is ready to give us a chance.”

“Andrés? Would you come back into the hall, please? It is dangerous in here, and Miss Hastings has done nothing to deserve whatever punishment you might wish to inflict upon me. She is only trying to help us communicate.”

Andrés meets my gaze. He holds it, and I see suspicion in his eyes. A natural suspicion.

He shakes his head and points at the closed door.

“He really does want us to follow him in there,” I say. “Is there something inside that you wish us to see, Andrés?”

His mouth sets in a hard line. Then he nods abruptly and disappears inside.

“He says yes,” I say. “He has gone into that room, whatever it might be.”

“The pantry. It was also his quarters. He had a bed in the corner. Part of his job was to keep rats away from the foodstuffs, and that was more easily done if there was a person staying in the room. Or that is what the cook said, though I think he was just allowing the boy a warm and safe place to sleep, one with late-night food at hand.”

“If it was his room, then there is probably something he wishes you to see. Or wishes you to have. That would make sense.”

“It would.”

Nicolas climbs over a broken ceiling beam. “Is there something in the pantry you wish me to see, Andrés?”

“He isn’t here,” I say. “He has gone inside.”

“Wait there, please, crécerelle,” he says when I start to follow. “It is not safe here, most of all. The floor is gone, and I must . . .”

He grunts as he swings over what I now see is a hole, as if something else smashed through the floor. On the other side, he grips the wall while balancing on what remains of the floor in front of the pantry door. It is little more than a ledge, and my heart stops on seeing it.

Do not trick him, Andrés. Please. Whatever you suffered, Nicolas was good to you. I know he was. Tell me you did not lure him into that precarious spot to harm him.

I stare at the door, focusing all my energy on it, ready to warn Nicolas if I see even a shimmer. There is none, and Nicolas grunts again as he positions himself better. Wood has fallen in front of the door, and he must move it aside. He’s doing so when he stops. He’s tugging one thick plank, and it isn’t moving.