Waving her hands blindly in front of her, Maren shuffled in the opposite direction. Paper slid and small objects rolled under her feet. She hit something big and round and metal—a wheel of some sort, or a gear. Its rusty edge bit into her palm. With a hiss, Maren wiped the blood on her jeans and crept around the massive object. Her knee found a chair; her hands brushed over damp, moldy fabric, and she had no idea of the shape of the room around her, whether she was about to step into a hole or through a rotten floorboard. Behind her, the moths fluttered and searched, and she had to keep moving.

The floor sloped downward, its surface less cluttered as she went, but slick with moisture. The sour reek of mildew and old things filled her sinuses. Then she hit a crumbling cement wall. Maren walked her fingertips along it to the right, where she found a corner and more blank wall, then to the left, where she found the same thing. A dead end. No door, no window, no way out.

In the blackness, insect wings whispered. Maren clamped her mouth shut and dropped to her knees, brushing her hands across the slippery floor. There had to be something here: if not a way out, a weapon or a tool she could use to pry open the trapdoor leading to the stage. Assuming she could find her way back. Crawling feet landed on her head, and with a muffled shriek, she slapped at the moth, not caring if she crushed it into her hair. But it disappeared into the dark.

A few yards away, the floor glowed faint orange-yellow in a grid pattern. Maren ran to the glowing grid, which turned out to be a grate. A moth landed on her shoulder and she swatted it away. Another dropped onto her back, and Maren dug her fingers into the gaps between the metal and pulled. The sharp edges ripped at her skin, but she kept pulling, pulling, pulling. Finally, it gave way, and she tumbled backward. The grate clanged to the floor, and Maren froze, listening. Not daring to breathe.

Silence, except for the searching, flitting moths.

Maren squeezed through the hole backward, but the drop to the floor below was at least ten feet. Swiping a moth off her forehead, she braced herself on her elbows and reached back with her toes for a wall or a ladder, but found nothing.

Spindly moth legs tickled Maren’s ear, but she couldn’t get the insect off without losing her grip on the edge of the hole. Another landed on her nose. Maren whipped her head sideways.