They’d been in the subcellar, with candles, sitting in old, discarded chairs—Minerva and Willis and three maids and Jeff, the butler, and the gardener. All around them were racks of dusty wine bottles, barrels of wine and cases—the tissue paper around the bottles, mildewed.
They couldn’t have been sitting there, Nora thought, for more than a minute. Then the whole place jumped and the candles went out and it was like being on the Whipsaw ride at Swan Island, and the maids screamed, but not like amusement-park screaming.
Then—the air full of moldy-smelling dust.
And the maids were hollering their fool heads off.
Minerva, who’d been saying something about, “Going back up, if this absurd situation lasts any length of time…” had been shut up by the tremendous heave right there.
Nora’s chair slid on the bare earth floor. Barrels fell and bounced and rolled.
Then Willis, his old voice fierce, yelled, “Quiet!”
Peculiarly, Nora thought, the maids became silent.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Willis asked.
Mrs. Sloan didn’t answer.