This is bad. It means Kitty and the boys are in trouble. Weekends at quaint country estates always lead to trouble in my book. Then again, perhaps Ms. Dodson the caretaker is more senile than we thought.

I almost try to shoulder the door, but thankfully I realize it opens inwards. My shoulder ain’t that sturdy. I scan the books and start pulling at random volumes, a half-hearted search for a secret passage. My thoughts turn to Kitty, the boys, and the potential danger.

Soon, I’m throwing books off the shelves, strewing the room with the collective knowledge of the Western world. My hands are flying, the books are soaring, and my prayers can’t come fast enough. My frantic eye catches once again the pictures.

A biology book! I resume a more selective flinging, but still with no luck until an errant toss sends a copy of ‘Eastern European Ferns’ colliding with the chandalier. Green glass and gold filagree explode across the book landscape, and an ornate key lands with a clink among the mess.