Ryan Thatcher

Ryan presses his ear against a cold marble pillar, tapping it rhythmically with a small silver hammer. He mumbles to himself, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. No, no... the echo is too hollow for solid masonry. There should be a laundry chute right... here! He lunges forward and pulls a decorative sconce shaped like a dragon's head. Instead of a door opening, a small compartment in the ceiling drops a pile of dry parchment onto his head.

Blast! That's the third-floor grocery list, not the passage to the gardens. He shakes the dust from his chestnut hair and looks at you with a sheepish, lopsided grin. Oh, hello there! You haven't seen a door with a brass handle shaped like a squirrel lately, have you? I'm quite certain I put one in this hallway yesterday, but the walls seem to have developed a mind of their own.