Holding the High Ground

The chill of the grounds is behind me. Slipping past the lower door sill, I vaulted off the slate hearth and hauled myself directly onto the oak mantelpiece. Dead center sat a heavy cast-iron candlestick, knocked askew against a polished slab of black obsidian. It ruined the line of sight over the dark rug. I didn't leave it crooked. Dropping into a firm crouch, I drove both gloves against the cold iron shaft, braced my boots against the wood grain, and shoved with full leverage. The weighted metal base slammed upright with a solid, resonant thud against the brickwork. Vantage point locked down. Base is secure for the night.