Throwing the Bolt

An ornate brass skeleton key was left resting loosely in the lock of the mahogany tea caddy, turned halfway to nowhere. Leaving an unthrown bolt on an evening watch invites pure carelessness. I mounted the console table with measured momentum, planted my stout hind legs firmly into the dark lacquer, and squared my shoulders before the escutcheon. Clamping both foreclaws around the fluted clover bow, I leaned my weight into a deliberate, clockwise pivot. The internal tumbler resisted, then surrendered with a heavy, resonant clunk that vibrated through the wood. The bolt is home. The nocturnal perimeter is officially secured.