The Key Under the Stair

In daylight the east corridor was only a corridor. Faded green wallpaper, a threadbare runner, portraits of Ravensmere women with the same long jaw and the same pale, watchful eyes.

The door at the end was painted the same green as the walls, as if someone had hoped it might disappear into them. There was no handle. There was no keyhole either, only a small brass plate at eye level, engraved with a single word Nell could not read.

She put her palm flat against the wood. It was warm.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked. She spun round, heart racing, but the corridor was empty, the portraits went on watching, and the only sound was the wind moving around the tower like a restless animal.

At lunch she asked Mrs Greer what the word on the brass plate meant.

The housekeeper set down the soup tureen very carefully. “It’s an old word,” she said. “Your great-aunt used to say it meant waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Mrs Greer looked at her for a long time. “Eat your soup, Miss Ravensmere,” she said. “It’s going to be a long winter.”