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"Did you?" Adelaide kept her tone soft and unhurried. "Is there another room kept locked in that hallway, Mrs. Rutherford?"

The housekeeper did not answer immediately, her fingers working against one another. Adelaide waited patiently, having learned that Mrs. Rutherford responded far better to gentle patience than to strict authority.

"Your Grace," Mrs. Rutherford admitted quietly, "there is indeed a second suite at the far end of the wing, past the bend in the passage. The door is kept locked, though I retain the key among my responsibilities."

"May I inspect it?"

Mrs. Rutherford's eyes met hers, her expression revealing quiet relief, as though she had long anticipated the inquiry.

"I shall leave the door unlocked for Your Grace," she said softly. "Should you wish to visit this afternoon, the hallway will remain quiet."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford."

The housekeeper curtsied and departed. Adelaide remained in the morning room, her tea forgotten, her thoughts already moving down the east wing passage toward whatever lay behind that locked door.

The east wing stood silent in the late afternoon.

Adelaide walked slowly along the carpeted runner, her footsteps muffled. The hallway narrowed as it curved past her own bedchamber, past the door to Julian's quarters, and past the room she had entered days ago—Thomas's room, with its faded blue counterpane and boyhood keepsakes arranged upon the writing desk.

She did not stop there, but continued onward.

The passage turned sharply, and the carpet ended. Beyond the bend, the floor was constructed of unadorned oak, the pale boards worn smooth with age. The walls here lacked decoration—devoid of portraits or wall sconces—save for a single high window at the far end that cast a pale rectangle of afternoon light across the floor.

The heavy door stood at the terminus of the hallway, its brass handle catching the faint light.

Adelaide reached forward, her fingers closing around the cool metal. She turned the latch slowly; it yielded without a sound, and the door swung inward.

The room beyond was exquisite.

Afternoon light poured through tall windows hung with ivory silk draperies, their fabric faded along the hems yet undeniably elegant. A grand canopy bed dominated the far wall, its pale rose silk hangings drawn back to reveal a counterpane embroidered with delicate floral patterns. The dressing table held a silver brush and mirror set, their surfaces dulled with age yet polished to a quiet sheen.

Adelaide stepped across the threshold. The air smelled of dried lavender, cedar, and old silk.

Crossing to the dressing room doorway, she looked inside to see silk dresses hanging in an orderly row along the wardrobe rail—evening dresses, day dresses, and a riding habit of deep blue wool, each preserved with care as though their owner had stepped away only moments before.

Returning to the main chamber, she noticed a needlepoint frame standing near the window, a half-finished piece of embroidery stretched across the hoop. The thread remained attached, the needle resting where it had been placed mid-stitch. The pattern depicted a spray of delicate wildflowers: cornflowers, poppies, and wild thyme worked in muted silks.

She set this down and never returned to finish it.

The realization was quiet and heavy.

An escritoire stood against the far wall, its writing slope open. Adelaide approached it, noting volumes of poetry lining the shelf above—works by Cowper, Burns, and a slim collection of sonnets. A leather journal lay open upon the writing surface, the last entry dated thirteen years prior, the ink faded to a pale brown in an elegant, unhurried hand.

She refrained from reading the entry, respecting its privacy.

Beside the journal, resting upon the edge of the desk, sat a small miniature portrait in a gilt frame.

Adelaide picked it up.

The woman depicted in the portrait was fair-haired, her hair a lighter shade than Julian's—almost gold—swept back from a face of quiet, composed beauty. Her eyes were blue-gray, the exact shade of Julian's, looking out from the canvas with a gentle, guarded expression. She wore a simple dress of pale blue, complemented by a small cross on a fine chain at her throat.

Adelaide studied the features as recognition settled over her—derived from fragments of family history and the subtle change in Julian's tone whenever he referenced his sister.

Helena.

She recalled Ashwood Manor in summer: The tall grass behind the orchard and the winding woodland path to the lake. Julian and Thomas had arrived with their father for their annual visit—Thomas running ahead with his specimen net while Julian walked behind with his sketchbook. In every conversation, the brothers had spoken of their elder sister with deep affection:

Helena mentions that the orchids in the south meadow are early this year.