With fingers of magic, I began to rifle through cabinets and drawers, making certain I left everything as it had been. I found little of interest other than stacks of love letters from would-be suitors, and pages of badly written poetry signed by someone with the initial J. Her closets were full to the brim with expensive clothes, shoes, and all the accoutrements a wealthy woman was likely to own, the whole of it dominated by a spicy perfume that tickled at my nose.

The drawer in the bedside table I opened, immediately closed, then opened again, my curiosity stronger than my moral fiber as I assessed the collection of silken cords, feathers, and bits of lace. Interesting.

It was only as I was about to close the drawer again that I noticed something was off about the depth of the space. A quick inspection showed me how to pop the false bottom up, revealing a stack of age-darkened letters hidden beneath. A clever place to hide something from high-minded servants.

Turning my attention back to the letters, I skimmed through them. They were from Cécile’s father to her mother, all written in the five-year period following their separation, and each and every one of them pleading with her to come join her family. Questions as to why she changed her mind about accompanying him. Words begging her to come to Goshawk’s Hollow, describing how much he and their children missed her. Desperate sentences explaining that he would sell the farm and bring the children back to Trianon, if only she would answer his letters.

In the last year, they decreased in frequency, but the plea never changed – right up to the point they stopped. Was that when she finally answered him, I wondered? Was that when she said no? Or, after five years of pleading, had he finally realized it was hopeless? And what did it mean that she had kept these letters all these long years? Were they trophies like the love letters I’d found, or deep down, did Genevieve really care?

I thought about taking the letters to show to Cécile, but something stopped me. How could seeing written evidence of her father’s unanswered pleas to her mother do anything but hurt her? She had enough to deal with without me digging up old wounds, so I replaced them in their hiding spot.

Downstairs, I wandered through the great room, the parlor, the kitchen, and even poked my head in the cellar before stepping inside the small, windowless study I found under the stairs. Expanding my ball of light, I started going through the contents of the desk, sorting through uninteresting correspondence, invitations to parties, sheaves of opera music, and stacks of bills, all of which she seemed to pay on time.

Then my eyes lighted on a small safe bolted to the floor in the corner. It was made of solid steel with a modern-looking combination bolt. I was loath to put my ear against the toxic metal, but there was nothing else for it if I wanted to get inside. Ignoring the itching burn, I listened for the sounds of the tumblers falling as I slowly rotated the dial, and within moments, I had it open. I’d expected to find jewelry, but instead my eyes landed on stacks of ledgers. I began flipping through them, my jaw all but falling open at what I found.