The looming, iron-bound door swings open with a push into a kitchen in bustling chaos. The scent of roasting meat and sharp chopped lemons and herbs mingles with the toasted-sugar scent of an enormous tower of buns being stacked and shackled in place with caramel.
For a moment, no one looks your way. You dash for the nearest door out of the kitchen and find yourself in a hall that smells distinctly of wine.
You see a couple of open doors and, at the end of the hall, a set of stairs. Probably one of the doors leads to Cenone's wine cellars. Probably the other leads to at least one servant whose job it is to make sure that the valuable bottles don't wander away on their own. Probably you're going to need to be very quiet indeed to make your way to the stairs without alarming anyone.
You try to be quiet. You've been told often enough lately not to knock things over backstage and to refrain from stomping on the boards unless portraying a giant or a child in a temper. You creep down the hall, sparing a brief glance into the cellar where Cenone's best wine rests in gleaming bottles and aged barrels.
At the end of the hall, you hurry to shove the door open so you can make your escape. The door swings all too easily, oiled and balanced so that a servant carrying a tray can shoulder their way through, and swings back to hit you in the face. Through a tremendous effort of self-control, you manage not to yelp, but apparently the sound of a wandering party guest running into a door is not identical to the sound of a servant proceeding efficiently up the stairs.
You turn to find yourself confronted by an aging man peering at you with the scowl of an upper servant who lacks patience with shenanigans.