We tiptoe down the hall and into the office. I take Nicolas’s hand, and we hurry to the stitch. This time, I feel the pull of it when we reach the right spot. The room flickers, and footsteps quick-tap down the corridor.

Bronwyn calls quietly, “Miranda? Is that you? There’s something—” but before she can finish, we are in the eighteenth century.

Nicolas glances back over his shoulder, as if Bronwyn could still be there. “Was that Lady Thorne? It sounded as if she wanted to speak to you.”

I am about to agree and suggest we return when Lord Thomas appears through the wall, his eyes wide with alarm. When he sees us, he wilts with relief.

“I have been searching for hours,” he says. “Wherever were you hiding?”

“There’s a secret passage,” I say. “We were beset by your son’s men.”

“Yes, I know. I followed them here, but it is not always easy to travel in this form, and I arrived too late to warn or help you.” He looks at Nicolas. “Where is the satchel?”

“In the passage,” I say. “We have discovered pages that will prove useful. They confirm that your son is trying to take over Hood’s Bay, forcing out the fishermen and smaller shipping companies, with his eye on making it a port to rival Whitby.”

Lord Thomas seems to fade, his shoulders slumping. “I admire his ambition. I only wish I had imparted a sense of righteousness along with it. Dare I ask how dire the situation might be? I want to help the people of the bay, but I do not wish to see my son hang for his ambition.”

“It will not come to that,” I say firmly. “We only wish to use the papers to force him to stop his campaign against the people.”

And, if possible, to trick him into doing or saying something that will prove he ordered Andrés’s death. I won’t say that to Lord Thomas. However disappointed he may be in Norrington, the man is still his son, and he does not need to know the truly reprehensible thing he has done.

“Now,” I continue. “I can assure you we are fine and safe in our cubbyhole, and so if you will allow us to return, we can continue poring over the pages and—”

“No.” He jumps forward with alacrity. “I was worried about you, but that is not why I have been haunting this house all night. They have taken my granddaughter.”

“Emily?” I stiffen.

“My son ordered his men to take her into their custody. He knows she aided your escape, and the mad child . . .” He shakes his head. “She did not deny it. I thought I was going to rip a hole between the worlds, shouting at her to lie. She is a woman of honor, and she told the truth with her chin high.”

Pride warms his voice as he continues, “She admitted that she had helped and berated her uncle for his misdeeds. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to do right. But she still does not understand what her uncle is capable of, and now I fear she will find out. She did not realize she was his captive. Such a thought would not cross her mind. To her, it was no more serious than her uncle demanding to know who left the barn door open.”