When I first moved into Kiki’s home, I found the high ceilings and lofty windows overwhelming. They frightened me in a way I couldn’t articulate then and probably couldn’t now. Part of it was that it was all too grand, too foreign. But another part was that it felt unprotected. Exposed. Everything was there to be displayed, to show off the family’s wealth and power and position.

The one place in the whole building that didn’t make me feel like that was the wine cellar. It was cool and dark and quiet. The ceilings were vaulted but relatively low. The bottles gleamed like warm glass by the light flickering in the sconces on the walls. It was like a cocoon, sheltered from the overwhelming, overpowering house above.

A wine cellar. The perfect place to hide.

The light is too low to see much of anything here, but I feel along the walls for a door or a latch or something. My palms trail over cold stone for an agonizing moment before my fingers butt against something metal and hard.

A lock.

I try the door but the heavy wooden bulk refuses to budge. Strange. On a night like tonight, where wine is flowing like water, one would think that access to the wine cellar would be something of a necessity.

I run the pads of my fingers over the lock, feeling its shape. The mechanism is of solid construction but not complex. A simple and straightforward design.

I may not have Kiki’s delicate instruments to pick the lock, but then, I never needed them. My education on the streets of Potosí had less to do with books and more to do with practical experience. I slip two pins from my hair and kneel before the door, regretting for once in my life that I am ruining a dress. Then, I get to work.

Even now, this far from the action of the party, I can hear servants rustling about in the rooms upstairs. Sorting out food and drinks. Cleaning up the detritus of the wealthy and the privileged as they gorge themselves on roast duck and the finest wines in the New World.

A cold breeze dances along my spine as I work the lock. I can feel the tumblers resisting the push of the pins. One of them snaps in my hand, and I bite back a curse. At least my thick mane is host to many, many more. I slide another pin free, further mussing my hair. Oh well. The ensemble looked good while it lasted. Seconds tick by as I maneuver the pins in the lock, working as quickly as I dare. Locks do not like to be rushed. Two more broken pins later, the lock tumbles open.

Finally.

The door swings open, blessedly quiet, the hinges well oiled.