As the flickering light allowed for one last glimpse of the room, Malachi reminded himself that it was the last time he would ever see it. It was, quite possibly, the last time anyone ever would, if the last remaining entrance was to be covered and destroyed.

For a fleeting moment, the idea saddened him. The room would remain cold, and empty, and alone underground; it would still exist within the soil, forgotten. He could almost imagine himself in it, under the dirt, keeping it company until his bones joined the others and he, too, was forgotten in time.

He looked one last time upon the fabric that had slipped like spider’s silk from his hands, and closed the door.

Malachi’s eyes were shut as he ascended, adjusting to the light through the barrier of his eyelids. Once he was up, he closed the cellar doors, fixed the lock, and appreciated the fresh air provided by the gardens.

“Oh, ah…”

That had not been a part of his regular reading with the church.

“Somewhat, but only vaguely,” he admitted, turning to lead them back through the maze and towards the front of the house. “Why do you ask?”