The only sounds were their own breathing as Seregil and Alec crept out to the stage. Dust lay everywhere. The theater space was lost in shadow beyond their lights and already had that smell of dust and mice that empty places took on. Somewhere, out there in the darkness, was the box they had occupied with Kylith, the first time they’d seen Atre and his players. A few stars shone above them where a skylight had been left half open.

“Do you think he’d hide anything out here?” whispered Thero, joining them.

Seregil cast around with his light, looking at the dusty floor. “No one’s been out here in a while.”

“But someone swept down the corridor in the right-hand wing, and I think I found us a door,” Micum whispered from the shadows behind them.

He led them past the ghostly muslin cubicles to a boarded-up door. Seregil inspected it closely, feeling here and there, and soon found a loose board that pivoted, exposing a latch and lock. This one was new, complex, and fitted with recessed needles. Given the size of the holes, the needles were large ones.

“Stand back,” Seregil told the others. Working with a bent pick, he tripped the device and jumped back as several steel needles shot across the corridor and embedded themselves in the far wall. “Nasty.”

Lifting the latch, he gave it a pull. As he’d guessed, the nails holding the boards to the door frame and wall gave easily from worn holes. Stairs led down into darkness, and a cold draft carried the moldy scent of a cellar. Seregil took the lead, sword drawn.

The low-ceilinged cellar was filled with dusty props and long rolls of discarded scrim. A few mouse- and moth-chewed costumes still hung from stone support pillars, and there were dozens of crates and trunks covered in more than a few months’ worth of dust and cobwebs. The floor was packed earth, the walls of mortared stone. Across the way a stone stairway led up to a large trapdoor that probably opened onto the stage.

“Bilairy’s Balls, this will take all night!” Alec exclaimed softly.

“Which is why you brought me, I believe.” Drawing his wand, Thero drew an orange sigil on the air. It swirled, then sank to the floor and rolled over it like fog, leading them across the cellar and disappearing behind a pile of crates stacked against the right-hand wall. “There is something there, or has been.”

“We should bring you along more often,” whispered Alec as he and Micum began shifting the crates away from the wall to expose a low door. The thick oak panels were painted black, with enormous iron hinges and a thick hasp secured with a large, new padlock. Alec did the honors this time and pulled it open. More cold, dank air greeted them as they cautiously stepped inside, but there was also the unmistakable aroma of candles recently snuffed.