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“No.” Wooden boxes were stacked against one wall. Next to them loomed the vague shape of something that appeared more solid. I bent down to examine it. “I am going to make a wedge.”

“With a mop? How?”

To my delight, the solid object was a heavy iron boot scraper with a rough serrated metal edge perfect for my purposes. I dragged it into the middle of the room.

“Like this.” I lined up the angle and then brought the mop handle down on the edge with a loud crack that made all three of us jump. The wood split slightly, but not enough.

“By beating it?”

Setting the compromised part of the handle against the ragged metal edge, I stepped up on either side and hopped. To my great relief, the wood cracked the rest of the way and came apart in a minor explosion of splinters.

Mela clapped her hands.

Sicilia frowned. “I don’t see how a broken piece of wood is going to open a door.”

“Patience,” Mela admonished, repeating something I had told her multiple times. “She has a plan.”

Choosing the end with the most length, I jammed the point into the crevice where the door met the jamb. Bashing the end in with the help of my shoe and drove it deep. Then, I threw my entire weight against the far end.

The door groaned, the wooden handle bowed under the force, but the makeshift wedge remained in the crack. Encouraged, I leaned into the handle again, this time more slowly.

The wood groaned, creaked, and then squealed as the wood of the door frame bent. Progress!

I moved to the door to examine the change. The gap was disappointingly small, but it was enough to wedge it further if I used the shorter bit of broken mop handle. I scrambled around on the floor, locating it where it had rolled under the edge of the shelves. Jamming it into the gap, I removed the longer handle. The smaller piece held the gap open as I adjusted the larger tool’s angle.

Lining it up, I prepared to pry again.

Recalling that slow and gradual worked better than fast and abrupt the previous time, I leaned into the handle.

Wood groaned, the door creaked, and the doorframe warped further. The short wedge fell out, but the door remained solidly closed.

Sicilia muttered an oath.

Maintaining the force on the mop handle, I nodded toward Mela. “Put the short piece in again for me, please.”

Mela rushed to obey, just barely missing tripping over the boot scraper in her eagerness. “We are almost there,” she whispered as she pushed the wedge back into the gap I had created.

“One more should do it,” I agreed as I motioned her away once the wedge held.

Then I repositioned the handle once more. Muscles straining, I pushed my full weight against the wood one more time. We needed to get free. For the Unseelie, Greyson, and most of all for Kent. Reaching deep within, I summoned what little fae magic I had and tried to feed it into my efforts.

I couldn’t tell if it was that last bit of magical help or just the fact I had worn the wood down, but the lock let go in a burst of splinters and twisted metal. The mop handle flew free, striking me hard in the stomach before cracking against the floor and then bouncing away.

Falling to my knees and barely keeping myself from face planting on the floor, I gasped for breath in the sunlight flooding the closet.

“Yes!” Mela shouted.

“Shush!” Sicilia hissed.

“The door opened,” Mela pointed out.

I coughed and sat back on my knees, too out of breath to speak. My side ached. My hand pressed the spot where the handle had hit my ribs. I fully expected a nasty bruise to form, but it was worth it if we were free. Now I just had to catch my breath.

Then a shadow fell across the doorway.

“And what do you think you are doing?”

The familiar sound of Lord Stanton’s voice turned my blood to ice. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to fortify myself only to break off into more coughing as a sharp pain pierced through my chest. Unable to stop, I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.