the sweetness at the bottom of the pie by alan bradley

Reaching above my head at the back of the closet, I unscrewed one of the wire coat hooks from its mounting board. There was no one in sight save for its perpetual tangle of shadows, junk, and sad bric-a-brac, the long attic was empty. Thank heavens they had taken the key away with them. But first, to be sure they were not lying in wait for me, I squatted and peered out through the keyhole at the attic. With my hands free at last, I made short work of the gag.

If they had been bright enough to think of tying my thumbs together, I should never have escaped. Now I rotated my wrists, squeezing them together until I felt a bit of slack, using my thumbs to work the silk down until the knots were between my palmsthen between my fingers. Jolly good luck then that I'd remembered to put my fingertips together, using them as ten firm little bases to press my palms apart as they had pulled the knots tight. I tried hooking my fingernails under the silk scarf that bound my hands behind me, but since I always bit them to the quick, there was nothing to catch. Luckily for me, they had pulled the gag so tightly into my open mouth that my nostrils were left unobstructed, and I was able to draw in one slow lungful after another of the stale, musty air. I tried counting to ten on every intake of breath, and to eight as I released each one slowly into the darkness. I breathed heavily through my nose, fighting desperately to remain calm. they had shoved me in and locked the door. It was as black in the closet as old blood.

The sweetness at the bottom of the pie by alan bradley