Free The Chocolatier's Wife by Cindy Lynn Speer

opened.
    Cocoa-milk splashed, but she didn’t see it, she was too busy looking at the door she’d never seen before.
    She took a candle over and looked inside. The police had missed the place as well, she could tell from the lack of marks in the dust. She leaned in, one hand on the wall of the opening, careful to keep the door open as she assessed the space.
    A puff of air settled on her shoulder, she heard the roar of wind on the waves as invisible wings fluttered next to her ear and knew the clan chief himself, Nee-no, was taking an interest in what had been found. She could step inside, then, and if the door did close, surely he would get her out?
    So, taking a deep breath, she walked into the room, letting the door shut and dar k ness settle. “Well, let’s see how easy it is to get out?” She turned around and pushed the stone, and it opened again, easily, on well oiled and well hidden hinges. She let it go, and it shut again, silently.
    “It’s not very big.” Even with the candle, she felt herself taking rapid breaths, and she knew a long limbed man like William would go mad in such a small space. The clan head left her shoulder, yet she could still hear the roaring of the waves in the small space, doubtless the echo of the chief’s wings. She coughed, feeling smothered. “Enough!” The door opened for her and Tasmin ran out, panting. It was more from the dust, she thought, than feeling trapped in such a small space; her mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. Behind her, the chief was too far away for her to understand his words, but there was an imperious squeal. The dust from the room was being collected, the sprites outlined in gray as the particles stuck to them, and for the first time in a while, she could see them, charming little Tatu with her pig-tails, Moru with his single braid of hair and fierce, always displeased expression, and the great clan head Nee-no. There were many others, at least thirty strong, but she realized that their bellies were distended with dust, dust that had to go somewhere. The shu t ters flew open before she could unlatch them, the sprites huffing years of dust out into the street. She winced, and hoped no one was looking, but felt pleased. No one could de-dust a room better than her sprites, and she didn’t like the idea of anyone breat h ing dirt, for even her best efforts on her own would not be good enough to get every bit.
    Her thoughts caught her. Why would she be worried about people breathing dirt? What use would this place be put to? And then an idea, a bit mad, blossomed in her head. The chance for it to be used might never arise, but she knew she had to try. She decided that tea would get the filth out of her throat, so put some water on to boil b e fore beginning to gather what she could for the place she now called the safe-room.
    There was a smaller bucket in the pantry, looking quite new, so she took it and one of the buckets from the kitchen proper, deciding that she might as well fill one for use as well as one for the safe-room. The sprites kept watch and opened the door again when she approached the back of the shop with her burden. The new bucket went into the safe-room, with a cloth draped over it, along with an old chamber pot she found in storage. She gathered spare blankets and a summer cloak from the sea chest and made a narrow bed. A small stool finished it off, and she stood back, a bit amazed at herself, not because of the room, but because of the firmness to which she held the insane plan.
    “I wonder if it will work,” she murmured, running her hands over the skirt of her nightgown. It was crazy and dangerous. But if it would buy William time—keep him from the noose—then she was willing to do it. She left the room, and the door closed again, invisible even to those who knew it was there.
    “Father of the Ieechee sprites, would you be willing to help me?” she asked out loud, formally, for even though they acted as if they were her