The keep was constructed of the same heavy stones as the curtain wall but seemed to have fallen into greater disrepair. Thick roofing tiles had tumbled from high above to litter the base of the building, and the foundation had settled unevenly over time, spreading some of the solid blocks apart in wide cracks. We reached the entrance, a thick door with a heavy iron lock. Jackaby did not need to withdraw the magpie’s key to see that it was no match—the lock was much too large. He stepped toward the door anyway. Though imposing, the wood had suffered insects and the elements for three hundred years, and with a liberal shove of his shoulder, the wood crumbled around the lock and the thick door swung open. The keep had no ground-level windows. A stairway wound up to the right, and a passageway curved off to the left. A trickle of light snuck clumsily down the stairs from the second floor, but the passageway on the left only darkened further as it rounded the corner.
