The attic, accessible through a narrow door on the landing by the main staircase, was lit by sunlight streaming through three gabled windows on the front of the house, and dust drifted in the air, making the bright patches look smoky, while the rest of the space was bathed in darkness. I placed the candle I’d brought from my room on the floor next to a pile of dusty trunks and opened the one on top. A mild tinge of guilt crept up on me—I wasn’t accustomed to rifling through other people’s belongings—but I had few options if we were to discover what happened to Edith. When I’d asked Cécile if she thought the Priers would allow my search, she shook her head and admonished me to proceed quietly. A conversation she’d had with Edith’s mother was the basis for her concern. I trusted her judgment and we agreed to reconvene and talk after the household had gone to bed.

My search was not fruitful. But as I opened the seventeenth trunk, one far in the back of the attic, in a dark corner away from the windows, the temperature in the garret dropped; goose bumps covered my arms and I started to shiver. My lungs tightened in my chest. I rifled through the contents, only to find it, like all the others, contained nothing but old clothing. Then, before I could lower the lid, a crash from across the room jolted me into action, and I leapt up, gripping the brass candle-holder. One of the windows had blown open and was banging against its sash.

It was the wind. The wind. I said the words over and over to myself, but couldn’t persuade any of my muscles to set into motion so that I might cross the room and refasten the offending panes. Another crash, this one from the trunk as the top lid fell back into place. I wanted very much to believe I’d caused it myself, when I jumped. But the delay between the two sounds was too great. Or was it? My mind didn’t seem to be operating in real time, and I felt disjointed and confused as fear robbed all of my focus. My feet still firmly planted on the floor—absolutely unwilling to move—I forced slow, deep breaths. The strategy to control my anxiety might have worked had my candle not blown out in the next instant.

Now I did feel mad, and I wondered if this was how it had begun for Edith—if a series of small coincidences, catalyzed by her brother, had preyed on her mind, bludgeoning her like an implacable rainstorm bent on destroying a fine spring day. Repeat the scenario at frequent enough intervals and the soundest mind would come unhinged.

I pushed a foot forward and began inching my way back to the doorway, trembling. But then came a sound that stopped me altogether: heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Cécile wouldn’t have dreamed of clomping with so absolute a lack of elegance; she prided herself on always moving with lightness and grace. I pressed against the sloping wall formed by the roof, first taking comfort in its strength, then realizing too late I’d left myself vulnerable, with nowhere to escape. Not that my precise location in the attic could have made much difference—either I could reach the exit uninhibited or not. If an interloper was standing at the top of the stairs, I’d have no hope.

And this proved just the case when Laurent appeared before me, his rage apparent in the flash of his eyes.

“What do you think you are doing?” He lunged at me and gripped my wrist. “Who gave you permission to come up here?”

“Your mother,” I lied, my voice shaking. She’d not specifically given me permission, but she’d made a point of telling me to treat the house as my own when I’d first arrived. “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you, but—”

“But what?” He scowled. “Let me guess. You’re exceedingly fond of attics and find them dreadfully romantic and you’d hoped your bored husband would come looking for you and rekindle whatever lost emotion there used to be between you. I shouldn’t bother if I were you. He’s more interested in flirting with my vapid sister.”

“How dare you?” Anger flashed hot through me and I balled my hands into hard fists.

“This is not your house, and my family’s concerns are none of your business. I suggest—strongly—that you leave before you come to understand too well exactly what this place, what these people can do to someone who’s fallen out of their favor. I suspect you’re not quite so strong as you’d like everyone to believe. So take your leave before it’s too late.” He spat the last words as he dragged me by the wrist to the staircase. “It would be best if you were gone before morning.”

22

“Mon dieu!” Cécile said as she embraced me and marched into my bedroom, where I’d been waiting for her since returning from the attic. She lowered herself onto a wide chair that stood in the space between two windows. “I do hope your adventure was productive. What an evening! I do not know how much longer we should stay here.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“There is so much—I must consider where to start. This visit, Emily, is making me crave your favorite, port. Champagne does not want to be in this house.”

I nearly fell out of my seat. “I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

“Nor did I and I am filled with dread and horror.”

“You must tell me what happened!”

“First, Dominique is exhibiting behavior most alarming. She told me that she’s growing concerned about you—that you remind her so much of her daughter in the days before she fell ill.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“Bien sûr,” Cécile said. “Any fool can see that. But she’s decided that your interest in Edith’s death is indicative of you losing your mind. She admitted to having tracked your whereabouts in the house these past days, and that she’s asked Laurent to spy on you.”

“Why on earth would she do such a thing? Even if she did have reason to think I was going mad?”

“It’s a ruse, chérie. Perhaps there’s something in this house she doesn’t want you to uncover. I’m not sure, but it’s unsettling me. Edith is dead and will stay that way no matter what you learn.”

“Madame Prier can’t hurt me, even if she’d like Laurent to scare me off.” I told her what had happened in the attic.

“Ridiculous,” she said. “But you must have been terrified. Don’t try to deny it—you’re still pale. What do you hope to find here?”

“Anything Edith’s written,” I said. “Diaries, letters, whatever there is.”

“Those won’t lead us to the child. I think it’s time to enlist the further help of Monsieur Leblanc. He may have journalistic contacts who could offer assistance.”

I nodded. “An excellent suggestion, Cécile. But I must ask if you’d be so keen to reconnect with him if he weren’t so handsome?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t say handsome. Dashing, perhaps. But he is, without question, far too young to be intriguing.”

“I shall get in touch with him first thing tomorrow morning,” I said as the door swung open and Colin strode into the room.

“How pleasant to find you both here,” he said. He kissed Cécile’s hand and my cheek. “Reminds me of long-ago afternoons in your library at Berkeley Square.” The house where I’d lived with my first husband proved an excellent place for me in the years following his death, and Colin and I had spent many happy hours in the library there.

“Those were lovely days,” I said.

“Idyllic,” he said.

“Did you find Monsieur Prier?” I asked.

“I did indeed,” Colin said. He pulled a flask of whisky from his jacket and poured a single finger into both of the glasses on the table near our fireplace. Cécile relieved him of one of them at once and he took a swig from the other before handing it to me. “He spends his evenings happily ensconced with his mistress and her daughter. They live not half a mile from this house.”

“How old is the daughter?” I asked.

“Just the right age to be the child whose presence has tormented you.”

“Did you confront the father?”

“The doting father,” he said. “I did and he was entirely nonplussed to find me shocked by the situation.”

“It is not, Monsieur Hargreaves, uncommon to find men in such situations,” Cécile said. “Do tell me you’re not naïve enough to believe otherwise.”

“No, no,” Colin said, sipping quickly from his flask. “It was his brazen attitude that surprised me. His wife knows about the child.”

“And what does she think?” I asked.

“She ignores the situation except at Christmas when she sends a heap of presents to the girl.”

“Extraordinary behavior for a spurned wife.” I drained my whisky, cringing as it stung my throat.

“Not extraordinary in the least for a doting grand-mère,” Cécile said.

I dropped my head into my hands, almost laughing. “No—”

“It’s possible,” Colin said.

“Et tu?” I asked. “You’re supposed to be my pillar of reason!”

“Think on it, Emily—the doctor would have felt no compunction whatsoever at turning the baby over to Prier.”

“It’s far too convenient,” I said.

“Not every question has a complicated, interesting solution,” he said.

“Kallista, you’re coming over all rational,” Cécile said. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“I wish I could say I’d always been rational, but you both seem amused enough already. I have, however, learned something in these past years. The answer might not be complicated or interesting or even seemingly significant, but it’s almost never so easy. Can we interview the mistress? Her friends? It’s a pity there’s no way to prove whether she’s the baby’s mother.”

“Diverting though this speculation is, I must confess to having tested Monsieur Prier’s knowledge of Edith’s condition as obliquely as I could,” Colin said. “He didn’t say anything extraordinary, and certainly nothing that suggested he was aware of being a grandfather. I think we must assume the mistress’s child is, in fact, his.”