Then she squares her shoulders and takes a first step, raises the heavy brass candelabra and stops. It’s too heavy, it’s going to slow her down. She checks to make sure her lighter is still in her pocket. Then she blows out six of the seven candles and pushes them into the waistband of her jeans. Holding the seventh candle, she drops the candelabra, which lands on the floor with a heavy thud. A few more steps, then she notices the flame flickering. She stops again to think. Unless she wants the candle blown out by the draught every few feet, she needs to find a way to shield the flame; a cupped hand won’t be enough. A screen, or a shade of some kind. She steps back into the wine cellar.

Ignoring the cuts to her hands, she rummages through the piles of broken glass. Eventually, she finds something that will have to do. The top of the bottle is in one piece, but the edge where the bottom used to be is razor sharp. She needs something to protect her hand, like a piece of cloth. My T-shirt, she thinks. I can wrap my it around my hand. Walking around in just my bra will be cold, but I can do it. I can do it.

‘Goddammit!’ she screams in helpless frustration. ‘I’m just going to stay in here where it’s warm and drink myself into a stupor. I can’t take anymore!’

Just then she spots the white rag on the whiskey barrel.

Karen wraps the thick cloth around her hand and up her forearm, gently lowers the broken bottle over the candle. Moves her hand back and forth a few times. It works; the flame is steady.

With the candle in one hand and the other on the rough stone wall for support, she takes a few steps into the tunnel. With an effort, she forces down her fear and moves forward. One step at a time, she tells herself. Just keep moving forward; this is as bad as it gets.

Twenty minutes later, she realises it wasn’t.

Karen Eiken Hornby has never been claustrophobic. Until now. The compact darkness in front of her, behind her; the sudden realisation that she can feel one wall against her shoulder while touching the other with her outstretched hand; the certainty that she could reach the ceiling if she reached up. There is impenetrable rock all around her, layers of soil and snow on top of that.

She wants to flail her arms about, scream. But terror at the way the narrow tunnel envelops her and the thought of the stagnant air seeping even deeper into her lungs stops her. Instead, she presses on – moving forward is the only way to keep the panic at bay. There has to be an exit, she tells herself over and over again. There has to be.