I stopped beneath the portrait.
She looked like a stranger.
And yet, beneath the paint and pearls, I could see the small sadness at the corner of her mouth. The same sadness she wore when she thought I was asleep.
Mrs. Vale led me upstairs to a room prepared with fresh clothes, towels, and a bed wide enough for three people. Everything was cream and gold and too soft.
On the dresser sat a silver tray with tea, sandwiches, and a folded envelope.
My name was written on it.
Not Claire Pearson.
Claire Margaret Ashborne.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Claire,
If you are reading this inside Ashborne House, then the necklace brought you back. I am sorry. I tried to give you a smaller life because I thought it would be safer than the one I was born into. I need you to remember this: blood will open doors, but memory will show you which ones should stay closed. Trust no one who tells you the danger is over.
—Mom
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
Edmund had said my mother ran until she died.
But this letter had been placed here before I arrived.
“Who put this in my room?” I asked.
Mrs. Vale stood at the doorway.
“Your mother did.”
The air left my lungs.
“What?”
“She left several letters here before she disappeared. One for Theodore. One for Edmund. One for you.”
“She came back?”
Mrs. Vale’s face closed.
“Once.”
“When?”
The housekeeper’s gaze dropped to the necklace in my hand.
“The night your father died.”
Before I could ask another question, Edmund appeared behind her.
“That is enough for now, Mrs. Vale.”
The woman bowed her head and left.
I rose slowly.