It still surprised me to realize that he and I were distantly related. My great-aunt Grace had married Prescott’s uncle, joining the Montgomery and Avery families together three generations ago. I had been named for Grace’s sister Lucy, who the family had nicknamed Lucky, because of her carefree joie de vivre and uncanny good fortune. Like the time she gave a girlfriend her ticket to sail home from London so she could stay behind and continue an affair with a married man, who happened to be a count. The ship was the Titanic.

We reached the lower level and the elevator stopped with a tiny jolt. This time Prescott opened the inner door and the exterior door slid open. We stepped into another corridor; sharply cooler and lit by flickering gas wall sconces. More art hung on the walls: paintings that were darker, surrealistic. Macabre. I thought I recognized Salvador Dalí, Goya, and Andy Warhol. Originals, all of them.

I looked away from a bloody severed head being held up by a gruesome-looking demon and said, “What else is down here besides your wine cellar?”

His lips curved in a small smile. “The bowling alley, the Italian marble swimming pool, storage rooms for the chairs and tables when we have our big parties, holiday decorations … that sort of thing. And, of course, my archives.”

Prescott’s collection of documents and memorabilia dating from the earliest days of the country—particularly anything belonging to the Founding Fathers who were Virginians—was probably the most extensive in the world outside of the Library of Congress. Leland, my late father, had also been a historian and collector of documents and first editions on early Virginia history, and occasionally had sold some of his precious books and papers to Prescott when he needed money—usually to pay gambling debts.

We walked by a door with an old-fashioned dead bolt and a padlock.

“What’s behind that door?” I asked.

Prescott’s smile widened. “The dungeon. No castle would be complete without one.”

My stomach tightened. Was he serious, or merely teasing me?

“I thought that was just talk,” I said. “Kids trying to scare other kids, especially at Halloween.”

“So I’ve heard, but it’s part of the mystique of Hawthorne,” he said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to discourage the idea. Would you?”

He hadn’t said yes or no. “I suppose not. Especially considering the cheerful art collection that’s on display down here.”

He chuckled as we turned another corner. “I like to think we have very catholic taste in art. A little of everything.”