“No, but Sydney does. A tour.”

Sydney hopped off the bed. “Oh, that’s fine. I don’t need—”

“Of course you do. If you’re going to be here for a while, you need to know your way around. Neil will give you a tour after breakfast tomorrow, won’t you, dear? I’d do it myself but I don’t usually venture too far from the house. Especially not as far as the barrens.”

She could see just enough of Neil’s face over Maggie’s shoulder to take in the flash of sympathy in his eyes. But in a blink, it was replaced with something else—a forced politeness, if she wasn’t mistaken. “A tour. I can do that.”

Could, but didn’t relish the idea. That was plain enough.

But before she could argue, he spun away and disappeared down the hallway, the sound of his steps thumping on the staircase soon following. Maggie faced her again with a pleased smile on her face. “Well, then, that’s settled. Enjoy your supper.”

She gave Sydney’s cheek another pat, and then she was gone.

Sydney turned with a sigh, plucked her phone from the bed. No reply from Micah. She dropped it and moved to the windowsill, drawn by the tantalizing scent of Italian spices. She lifted the towel and reached for a piece of garlic bread.

But she paused with the slice halfway to her mouth, gaze drifting out the window.

And landing on the figure crossing the rambling yard out back, a full moon tracing his path toward a bundle of trees and a dog bounding at his side. Neil. He stopped, nearly to the trees, looked over his shoulder.

She inched away from the window, sliding up against the wall. Why had he looked back? Almost as if . . . as if he wanted to make sure no one was watching. She ducked her head forward to peer once more into the dusk.

But he was already gone.

Where are you off to, Neil MacKean?

My Dearest Robert,

I yelled at the children today!

Well, technically I didn’t exactly yell and I suppose I shouldn’t call them children—not with two of them over thirty and the third engaged.

Yes, Indi is engaged. I would tell you more about it if I knew any more about it. In fact, as soon as I’m done writing this letter, I will go to her room and congratulate her again and subtly dig for more information.

But I yelled at them. Or, well, rose my voice. Or maybe I didn’t even do that. But I was just so frustrated. Sydney’s here, you see, and . . .

I haven’t told you about her. I suppose there’s not much to tell just yet. Except her hair is a beautiful shade of red and she seems nervous and, my word, everything in me wants to believe she’s Diana’s. I’ll confess to having had the wild hope that she’d walk in the house and instantly recognize it. Never mind that Cynthia was barely two years old the one time Diana brought her here. I still hoped . . .