the smuggler’s bible


The done thing is to have a book jutting slightly off the shelf. Eliane wastes ten minutes picking among the upper volumes (deciding, perhaps presumptuously, that nobody would want to stoop to open their secret passage) before giving up and yanking the lot by the armful. Nothing.

Next is the candelabra. She tilts it vigorously, dripping wax but accomplishing little else. Finally, in danger of missing the dark ritual altogether, she twists the head on the bust of Diogenes in the corner.

“What the fuck,” Eliane says as the false panel slides away, “is this bat cave-ass amateur night bullshit?”