Blood.
That was the first thing I noticed when Reed and I stepped into Fairchild's library—a trail of crimson droplets leading from the carpet toward what appeared to be a solid bookcase. Too deliberate to be random splatter. Too fresh to be anything but recent.
"Your Grace, look at this." Reed knelt beside the trail, examining it closely. "Someone was wounded and dragged—or dragged themselves—this way."
My heart raced as I followed the trail with my eyes. "Clara Beaumont," I muttered, moving toward the bookcase. The blood disappeared directly at its base. "There must be a mechanism."
We searched frantically, running our hands along the ornate wooden shelving. Finally, I felt it—a small lever disguised as a decorative element. When I pulled, the bookcase swung silently inward, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
"Lanterns," I ordered, and Reed quickly retrieved one from elsewhere in the house.
