He eased the key backward.
Adjusted.
Turned again.
Click.
Both froze.
The lock released.
Cold air moved through the narrow gap around the door.
Caleb frowned.
“This room shouldn’t be cold.”
He pushed.
The hinges groaned.
Dust drifted through the lantern light.
Inside was darkness.
Not a closet.
A passage.
Clara stared over his shoulder.
“You said storage.”
“I thought it was.”
“How far?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb raised the lantern.
Stone steps descended beneath the cabin.
Clara looked at him.
“You have lived here how many years?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“And never knew there was a cellar?”
“I knew there was a root cellar.”
“This isn’t it.”
“No.”
“Comforting.”
Caleb stepped inside.
Clara grabbed his shoulder.
He turned.
“You are not disappearing underground alone.”
“I was going to check whether it’s safe.”
“So am I.”
“The stairs are narrow.”
Her expression changed instantly.
Caleb realized what he had said.
Clara’s size made narrow spaces difficult.
He began correcting himself.
She raised one hand.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t need to pretend they aren’t narrow.”
He watched her.
Clara continued.
“I am large.”
“Yes.”
“If I cannot fit, we solve it.”
“Yes.”
“Do not start lying about architecture to protect my feelings.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glared.
They tested the stair.
Clara could fit, though barely.
Caleb descended ahead, clearing cobwebs.
She followed carefully, one hand on the wall, the other holding her skirt.
Twelve steps.
Then a small underground chamber.
Stone walls.
Packed-earth floor.
Shelves lining one side.
Most empty.
One wooden table.
Three sealed barrels.
A rusted lantern.
And a large iron-bound cabinet built directly into the far wall.
Clara exhaled.
“Your father had secrets.”
Caleb’s face was hard.
“Yes.”
On the table sat an old ledger.
Caleb opened it.
The first pages were almost illegible.
Freight numbers.
Names.
Weights.
Dates.
Clara stepped closer.
She had spent most of her life reading bad handwriting from merchants who believed numbers became more respectable if written hurriedly.
She traced one line.
“1861.”
Caleb nodded.
“Before I was born.”
She turned pages.
Timber deliveries.
Flour.
Salt.
Powder.
Rope.
Then a name appeared repeatedly.
Samuel Bennett.
Clara stopped.
Her father’s name had been Samuel Bennett.
A common enough name.
Still.
She touched the page.