Emma crouched and called into the darkness. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“If you’re coming,” returned a distant voice, “come quickly!”

Emma stood up, surprised. Then shouted: “Who are you?”

We waited for an answer. None came.

“What are we waiting for?” said Olive. “It’s Miss Wren!”

“We don’t know that,” said Millard. “We don’t know what happened here.”

“Well, I’m going to find out,” Olive said, and before anyone could stop her she’d gone to the cellar doors and leapt through them, floating gently to the bottom. “I’m still alive!” her voice taunted us from the dark.

And so we were shamed into following her, and climbed down the steps to find a passage tunneled through thick ice. Freezing water dripped from the ceiling and ran down the walls in a steady stream. And it wasn’t completely dark, after all—gauzy light glowed from around a turn in the passage ahead.

We heard footsteps approaching. A shadow climbed the wall in front of us. Then a cloaked figure appeared at the turn in the passage, silhouetted in the light.

“Hello, children,” the figure said. “I am Balenciaga Wren, and I’m so pleased you’re here.”