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“Hah,” said Roz. “Lords don’t give their secretaries houses.”

Sometimes Viola seemed knowledgeable beyond her years, and at other times, hopelessly young. At the moment, Roz’s better understanding of the economic reality of their world offered some check on Viola’s enthusiasm for matchmaking. They reached the castle entrance and ascended the old stairs. The young porter, the one Cordelia had seen before, admitted them and told them Mr. Winter was expecting them.

Viola flashed Cordelia a triumphant smile. “Of course he is.” She skipped down into the courtyard.

Cordelia followed. The courtyard had none of the quiet dignity she remembered. In the bright glare of day, it was hard to imagine their Midsummer ball happening there. It was plainly a building site with pallets of stone and a wall of scaffolding against the southeast tower, its rough stonework exposed. The height of the tower struck her, and for a moment she could think only of that scaffolding collapsing.

Mr. Winter came to greet them, instantly and obviously disappointed in Mir’s absence. Of Graymont, naturally, there was no sign. Mr. Winter recovered and gave them his attention, as Cordelia and Roz worked out where to place the musicians and chairs and Lady Frome’s potted palms. Viola reminded them all of the artificial trees in the costume room. They talked briefly about how the courtyard was to be lit, and Mr. Winter had an idea of using the pallets themselves as anchors for poles from which lanterns could be strung.

As they were not to use the hall, their next concern was where to place the supper tables. Roz suggested the terrace of the Italian garden and led the way. The lovely setting was much more in keeping with their Midsummer theme and would easily accommodate their numbers. Cordelia turned to Mr. Winter. All the considerations of bringing the food, keeping some items heated and others chilled, and sitting out of doors in the chill air of a summer’s night had to be weighed. In the end, however, it appeared that they could manage.

“It seems we have a plan,” Cordelia said to Mr. Winter as they returned to the courtyard. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “If you and your sisters need further assistance, I—”

“Where’s Viola got to?” Roz interrupted.

Cordelia stopped cold and glanced at the scaffolding, but there was no Viola. With relief she recalled that Viola’s last remark had been about the artificial trees in the costume room. “She’s likely gone to the costume room to look at those trees we were speaking of.” Even as she said it, Cordelia had her doubts. Viola’s absence had been too prolonged for simply looking at those trees. Her youngest sister’s imagination was not stirred by stage props.

Cordelia led them to the costume room. The door was closed; the key hung on its hook outside.

“Oh, that girl!” cried Roz.

Mr. Winter looked at them in confusion.

Cordelia turned at once. “She’s likely gone for the dungeon, Mr. Winter.” Cordelia picked up a lamp from the bench outside the costume room, lit it, and headed down the narrow, sloping passageway to the dungeon. They reached a turning below the southwest tower. Cordelia lifted her lamp. The dungeon’s iron door was closed, but a faint light seeped out onto the passageway floor.

“Viola,” Cordelia called. She tried the door, but found it locked.

“In here,” came the answer. “I think the door is locked.”

“It does that,” Cordelia replied. “Do you have the key?” Cordelia held her breath.

There was a moment of silence before Viola replied. “Yes.”

“Then you must slip it under the door so we may free you.”

Cordelia knelt and set her lantern on the stone floor. There came a faint scraping sound, and the key emerged from under the door. She took it and stood, then pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door creaked open in a most satisfyingly Gothic way.

Inside, Viola stood, a bit pale-faced, in the narrow space under the low ceiling with a rough wall at her back and piles of crates crowded around her. The room smelled of dirt and dampness. An old broom leaned against the stones next to Viola. No instruments of torture could be seen. No iron maiden or rack or chains or shackles. Rather, at least one of the crates revealed its contents—dusty leather-bound ledgers.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Viola said, looking at Mr. Winter. “I was in danger of losing my mind.”

“Hah,” Roz laughed. “You’ve already lost your mind.”

Viola turned on Roz. “If I have, it’s no wonder, being trapped in an … an oubliette for hours.”

Cordelia leveled her gaze on Viola. “Hours?”

“It seemed like hours,” Viola said. “And what if the lamp had blown out, and what if you had not come looking for me? Years from now you’d find my bones.”

“If we bothered to look,” Roz muttered.

“We did look,” said Cordelia, “and we found you, unharmed. Let us go back to the lodge. Mir will be wondering where we are.” Cordelia knew at once that she’d erred in mentioning Mir.

Viola seized the opening, instantly recovered from the ordeal of sitting in a closet for half an hour’s time. “Mr. Winter, Mir is so grateful to you for your service to her yesterday.”

“Is she recovered then?” he asked.