Instead, I let my head rest against the wood, pressing my ear against it as if I could hear anything on the other side. As if the door itself could whisper its secrets to me. I think about all these walls have seen and I wonder what it was like here when the Return struck. Did they know what was coming? Were they prepared? Did this village even exist before the Return, or was it created as a sanctuary? As a refuge hidden from the world?

But the walls tell me nothing, do not betray their secrets and everything around me is silent—

my own breathing muffled by the curtain separating me from the rest of the room.

Sleeplessness causes my eyes to burn, my limbs to feel heavy. I want to stay here in the cocoon of this place forever. Not having to face Harry. Not having to wonder if Travis will come for me. Not having to acquiesce to the Sisters, to acknowledge that I'm wrong about them.

I trace my hands along the pitted metal bands holding the wood of the door together, testing for weaknesses I know do not exist. I run my fingers over the hinges, my skin becoming slick with the grease they use in the Cathedral to keep the doors from creaking.

Suddenly, I want nothing more than my bed. To enjoy my one last night alone before I am bound to Harry. My last night to languish and allow Travis to pull me into dreams. I push away from the door, am slipping the curtain back from my shoulders, wiping my fingers along its grubby surface when I realize how to get past. How to gain entrance to the tunnel and the hidden rooms beyond.

I am instantly alert as I sweep the candle up from the floor by my feet. Its flame seems to throb with my heartbeat, the dull shadows it casts around me thrumming at the edges. My fingers shake as I feel along the wooden racks, testing for weakness. Finally, my finger catches the splinters of a split board and I grab it, twisting the wood until it pops and breaks, leaving me with a long narrow slat.

I keep prodding the shelves until I find another, thicker scrap of wood to serve as a makeshift mallet and then trace my way back to the hidden door. I wedge the splinter of wood against the head of the pin holding the two wings of the hinge together and begin tapping the end with the other scrap. I keep the curtain tight around my shoulders, hoping to dull the sound of my hammering.

At first the pin refuses to budge and I have to tap harder, until I'm swinging the mallet against the wedge of wood with all my strength, no longer caring about the echoes I'm creating around me.