She wrestles the bust away, then pulls up the trapdoor. Fastened to the underside, she finds a spring-loaded metal ladder. She pushes at the rough metal, watches the ladder unkink into a Stygian darkness. A torch, or a candle? No, there’ll be light. She gropes blindly under the floor with one hand, head hanging over the pit. A sharp shove on the buttocks and she would fall and probably die, neck broken in a comedic pratfall assassination. She checks her six, knowing it’s absurd. Do it anyway, and move on.