“No, no, we’d really best be going,” Maxine insists. Lena watches silently. I resist the urge to look behind me, to search for any movement in the tunnels. Is Oliver still trapped down there?

“If I were a good hostess, I would take you upstairs, insist you join me in the lounge for a glass of port.”

“I hate port,” Maxine replies.

“So do I,” the girl smirks.

“Rain check, then.” Maxine takes another step toward the door. This time, the girl lets her pass. We scurry behind her, out into the hallway.

“You are lucky I am not a good hostess. My great-grandfather would never forgive me if he knew I let guests leave without coming upstairs to say goodbye. You are also lucky my great-grandfather and I are very different people.” She takes a few steps so she is in front of us and jerks her head forward. “Come along then, I’ll show you out.”

The other staff give us questioning looks. We’re all covered in dust and I’m bleeding from my knees where I hit the ground, but with Anais as our guide, no one dares question us.

We make it to the door that leads to the outside, and Anais nods to the footman guarding it. He clears the way and holds the door open.

We step out into the thick night air.

I want to run as fast as I can away from this place, but Maxine pauses at the top of the steps, looking down at where Anais is haloed in the light of the kitchens. “Merci, Anais.”

Anais bites her lip to suppress a smile. “May I know your name?”

I tug at Maxine’s elbow. She shakes me off and bites her lip. “I’m Maxine.”

“May I be lucky enough to see you again, Maxine,” Anais replies.

Maxine pauses and shakes her head with a small smile, then follows Lena and me across the wide cobblestone street.

The night is cloaked with fog. In the warm June air, I feel as if I am choking on it.

“I won’t leave Oliver,” I say.

Lena nods. “We’ll wait for him over here. It’ll be fine, Frances, you need to breathe.”

Maxine agrees. “Is your head all right? We can call for the doctor once we’ve returned to the flat.”

“My head?”

Suddenly two figures emerge from the mist, tripping across the wide cobblestone street.

Oliver is dragging Finn as quick as he can, with Finn’s arm slung around his shoulder.

“Oliver,” I sigh. Relief floods through me at the sight of him.

“Go—” he demands.

We stare at them, frozen and confused. “Go,” he says again, and this time we do. He nearly trips over Finn’s dragging feet, as his weight shifts and the hand around Oliver’s neck slips.

The fabric of Oliver’s jacket collar tears as Finn grabs half-consciously at it in an attempt to stay upright.