The grand library smelled of leather and forgotten stories, a silent tomb for countless ancient, priceless books. Eleanor pushed the heavy service cart, its wheels groaning loudly in protest against the polished, cold marble floor. She was supposed to be home an hour ago, but Mr. Alistair needed his precious, very rare manuscripts tonight. A faint light flickered from his private study, a room strictly forbidden to all junior staff members like her. Her own heart hammered against her ribs as she slowly approached the slightly ajar, ornately carved mahogany door. The coppery metallic scent of fresh blood hit her nose, sharp and completely out of place in here. She pushed the heavy door open and saw him slumped over his large desk, a dark red stain spreading. A letter opener, a wicked silver dagger, protruded from his back, catching the dim light from the desk lamp. His unblinking eyes were wide and staring at nothing, his mouth frozen in a silent, truly final scream. Eleanor could not breathe, could not even scream, could only stand frozen in the darkened doorway, a silent witness.