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I climbed the stairs with my heart going like a lift motor with a bad bearing.
The corridor was long and dim, candle flames shivering in their jam jars. Blue ribbon: a crack of lamplight, the smell of old books. Gold: a rhythmic creak, and a woman’s voice saying yes, oh yes, just like that. Black: shut tight, quiet. The key was warm in my fist.
At the far end, a red ribbon hung on a dark wooden door, tied in a perfect bow. Next to it, one door before, was purple.
Purple was open a few inches. Candlelight and heat poured through the gap, and a babble of low voices and wet, slapping sounds, laughter, a man groaning, a woman’s voice breathlessly saying more. Somebody inside saw me looking. A hand in a long gold glove appeared through the gap and waggled its fingers.
“Come on in, highwayman,” a voice called, amused. “There’s room.”
Down the corridor the red door waited, still and silent. A minute earlier a woman in a scarlet dress had told me exactly where to find her.
I stood between them with the key in one hand and my own pulse in my ears and about two seconds of courage left.