What had him so on edge? Was it the house? Or possibly . . . me?

“Thanks,” he said, and did this weird ducking walk into the foyer. Like he was stupid excited and trying (and failing) to contain it.

I tried not to smile as he trailed right past me to stand in the center of the foyer.

“Oh, wooow,” he said, turning in a slow circle so he could get the panoramic view. “This place is unbelievable.”

“I’m just glad there’s running water.”

He marveled at the dusty but lit chandelier that dripped crystals. “No, it’s beautiful,” he said, his voice breathy and lost and actually kind of sexy.

He floated farther into the foyer, as though drawn inward by an invisible force, gaping at the walls as he passed them like they were coated in gold instead of cobwebs. I waited while his wandering took him all the way to the grand staircase. Propping one foot on the bottommost step, his hand going to the newel post, Lucas peered up to the second floor.

“Geez-O-Pete,” he whispered, his fingers twining the newel post’s decorative cap—which then promptly came off in his grip.

“Hey!”

Lucas and I jumped in unison when my dad came tromping in from the back hall, his brow knit with annoyance. “What the deuce did you just do?”

“Oh,” Lucas uttered, his entire face becoming one big O of shock.

“Dad,” I warned, while Lucas took two retreating steps from the stairs. After drifting too close in my direction, it dawned on him that he still held the amputated cap, which he slowly extended toward Dad. Dad marched over to him, scowling hard until, suddenly, a smile broke through the Incredible Hulk facade.

“I knew it was like that,” he said, accepting the piece from Lucas. “Haven’t glued it back on yet.”

Pressing a hand to my chest, I rolled my eyes at my father and his guerrilla warfare tactics while Lucas’s whole body sagged with relief.

“Dad,” I said again. “This is Lucas Cheney. The friend from school I’m doing that report with?”

I nodded at Lucas, whose panic returned in an instant, his eyes snapping to mine.

Relax, I tried to convey, be cool and just play along.

“Richard Armand,” Dad said, offering his hand to Lucas, who accepted my father’s stiff military shake. I cringed inwardly, hoping Dad’s grip wasn’t as crushing as it looked. “Stephanie says you two are working on a local-history project for school?”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Lucas, though I could tell it caused him deep unease to lie.

“What’s with the camera bag?” Dad said, his seriousness returning, genuine this time. “Are you two taking photos in here for this thing?”

“Oh. Uh . . .” Lucas fidgeted with the bag strap, like he was fighting the urge to deny the thing was even his.

“Chill, Dad.” I looped my arm through one of my father’s giant ones and gave it a squeeze. “We’re just documenting a few things. Like the differences between the main stairway and the servants’ stairway and other Victorian-era things like the butler’s pantry and the dumbwaiter.”