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Adelaide opened her mouth, but Julian cut her off with a sharp, dangerous shake of his head.

"You cursed me before you left," he said, each word a blade. "You blamed me for Thomas and for everything else, and then you vanished. And now you return, expecting an embrace?"

Helena's smile vanished entirely. "You misunderstand. I do not expect forgiveness. I came only to see if my brother was still alive."

He turned his glare on Adelaide, the force of it pinning her to the spot. "You invited her. You went behind my back and summoned her to this house."

"I invited her as your wife. As the Duchess of Ravensmere. And as someone who cannot bear to watch a family rip itself to pieces out of pride," Adelaide replied, her voice quiet but stubborn.

"Of course you did," Julian spat, almost a laugh but not quite. He turned back to Helena. "Well then. Here she is, the Duchess of Ravensmere. Meet her, Helena. Perhaps you two can keep each other company. I certainly will not."

He turned on his heel, boots striking the marble, and stormed out. The echo of the slamming door seemed to vibrate through every window in the house.

Helena stared after him, shoulders slumping. For a long moment, she stood perfectly still, lips pressed tight together as she waged a private battle for composure.

Adelaide stepped closer. "Would you care to sit, Lady Helena?"

Helena forced a smile, but it did not reach her eyes. "Please, call me Helena. I have not the stomach for formality this morning." She took up her valise, then set it down again, as if already unsure of her right to stand on the tiles. "If it is not too much trouble, I should like to see the house again. I have no wish to be fussed over."

"Of course." Adelaide gestured up the broad main staircase. "We may begin with the gallery, if you like."

Helena nodded, though her gaze was fixed on the door Julian had used to make his escape.

They climbed the staircase in silence, the house holding its breath around them. Adelaide led her through the west hallway, past rows of window seats and alcoves, the air heavy with the scent of waxed wood and lavender sachets. Every footfall sounded far too loud.

Helena looked at nothing for long stretches, then paused to rest her hand on the curved rail, or to run her fingertips across a patch of sun-warmed paneling. They moved at a gentle pace, Helena absorbing each detail with a combination of nostalgia and sorrow.

At the end of the hallway, a glass-paned door opened onto the portrait gallery. It was a long, cold room, with windows on one side and a line of somber, oil-painted faces on the other.

Helena entered first. She moved down the row of portraits, pausing to inspect each one. The Hawthorne family line was an unbroken succession of high foreheads and stormy eyes, the resemblance to Julian impossible to ignore. The final three portraits—hers, Julian's, and Thomas's—stood together at the far end, but all three had been covered with white dust cloths.

Helena stopped short.

"He covered our faces." Her voice trembled. She reached out, gripping the edge of the dust cloth. "He covered us. All these years, and he could not look at us even once."

Adelaide stepped forward. "When I first arrived, the portraits were already covered. I never uncovered them out of respect for his wishes."

Helena's hand hovered over the cloth, fingers clenched.

"I do not care for his wishes," she said, and pulled the cloth away.

Her own portrait stared back at her, solemn and serious, painted at nineteen. She looked so different—so alive—Adelaide barely recognized her.

Helena yanked the cover from Julian's portrait. He wore his father's formal uniform, hair severely swept back, a thin and almost angry mouth. The last cloth revealed Thomas, painted in a moment of unguarded laughter. The artist had caught the exact mischief in his eyes and the wild, untameable tilt of his smile. Even now, it was difficult to look at for more than a second.

Helena stared at them all, lips tight.

She stepped back, then sank down onto a window seat, her arms wrapped tight around her waist.

"I do not recognize any of us," she said. "We are ghosts. We have haunted this house for too long."

Adelaide sat beside her, careful to leave a respectful distance. "You are not a ghost, Helena."

Helena laughed—a raw, exhausted sound. "What am I, then? I left my brothers to rot in their own grief. I spent thirteen years pretending I had no family at all. I wrote to you, Duchess, because I could not bring myself to write to him. And you—" She turned, her eyes fierce. "You brought me here to what end? To force a reconciliation? Or to punish us both for failing to heal?"

"I brought you here," Adelaide said, "because I could not watch the two of you pretend not to miss each other for another year. Because every time I mentioned your name, he looked away. Because even when he cursed you, his voice was full of loss. I may not understand, Helena, but I am not blind."

Helena stared at her.