The parlor that Iris used as a painting studio lay still and cold. A half-finished painting on the easel looked to be a depiction of Shakespeare with something spiny atop his head like a lumpy cap. A hedgehog?

But the paints on the pallet beside it had hardened and the stinging scent of turpentine had faded to nearly nothing. Poll ran one finger across the paintbrush lying along the lip of the easel. The pigment had hardened, the bristles ruined now beyond a soaking. His fingertip came away dusty.

How long had Iris been ill? Miranda had not specified in the note. Fear clutched Poll deep in his throat. Was he too late?

Mrs. Philpot was always in the kitchen. Poll strode quickly to the backstairs and clattered down them at speed. The kitchen was dim, lighted only by late afternoon light seeping in through the high cellar windows, but it was enough to see stout Mrs. Philpot sleeping in her chair before the fire. Something was bubbling away on the stove and there were chopped vegetables on the worktable, so Philpot was clearly cooking for the family.

Where were they? Leaving Philpot to her rest, for at best Mrs. Philpot was a forgetful sort of person, though hard-working. She was not, however, the person one should turn to for coherent answers to urgent questions.

Abandoning thoughtful progress for speed, Poll dashed back up the back stairs and then continued up the main stairs to the bedchamber floor. It was so quiet. Too damned quiet.

"Hello?" He heard his voice crack slightly. God, if he was too late in coming home…

"Hush. If you wake Aurora after all the work I had putting her down, I shall put bees in your chamber pot."

With a rush of relief, Poll turned to see his sister Attie glaring at him from a darkened doorway. "Attie!" He quickly modulated his tone to almost a whisper. "Thank heaven! The place is damned grim."

Attie crossed her arms and glared at him. Attie was a glaring sort of person, but this was a glare with intent. "Hello, Poll. Welcome home."

She was taller than when he'd last seen her, and angrier. Her tone was flat, almost bored, but her arms were crossed tightly over her torso and he could see her jaw clench.

Good God, Attie was worried sick. Diabolical she might be, his little sister was clearly exhausted and terrified.

Poll held out his arms. "Come here, you monstrous brat."

Attie thudded into him so hard he staggered. Her wiry arms wound around his waist as she pressed her hot face into his cravat. She wasn't one to weep but he could feel her quivering with tension in his embrace. He ran his hand over her thick unkempt braids and gave one an affectionate little tug. "Come on, buck up. Tell me what's going on with Iris. Where's Archie? Where's —" He cleared his throat. "Where is Cas?"