217 Babel Street | The Seventh Floor
Alicia's footsteps sounded like those of a far larger person in the echo chamber of the stairwell. She almost frightened herself. But she'd gone too far to turn back now. Onward she climbed, the trail of yarn beckoning her higher and higher, like a long, crooked finger, until finally she stopped short at a fire-door with the number 7 painted in shiny black. Overhead, a camera swivelled on its axis, eyeballing her. She tried to smile and risked a shy wave. Then she reached into her backpack and withdrew her treasured box - as an offering for the Very Important Person or a magical protection, she wasn't sure.
The corridor unfolded in a river of deep red, a rich carpeted hush. She gripped the box in both hands. She wondered if at any moment the penthouse door would burst open and she would have to whisper, "I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Alicia. I've come the wrong way." Her face burned. Her forehead throbbed. She wondered why when her heart was not in her head.
Through the Very Important Door she could smell cooking - something strong and meaty. She was relieved she was short enough to elude the spyhole should anyone be looking. She bounced anxiously on her heels. "Go," her trainers flashed. "Go from here." The trail of black yarn agreed. It meandered past the penthouse and around a sharp corner.
She would just take a moment to see where it led.