What was it she’d even said? She’d only told her to leave it alone, hadn’t she? And, yes, she’d stormed off—but it wasn’t as though she couldn’t find her way back to the Moon cottage. There were only so many streets, and they’d explored them all together Tuesday night. Besides, Tas-gwyn Gibson had caught up to her in about two seconds. He’d have kept her entertained on the walk home.

Leaning against the wall, she took another sip. Her gaze darted to the table, the drawing. Not from a family in these parts, but . . . it looked a bit familiar. She couldn’t place where she’d seen it before though. Likely on something an incomer had. Or even, she supposed, a crest she’d seen on a carriage that visited the Telfords.

It was probably nothing, but it niggled, so she moved over to pick it up and studied it a bit more closely once she was in her spot again. Turned her eyes to the window, hoping realization would dawn, and frowned when she saw a man approaching their door, which might not have been anything worth noting if it weren’t pouring. He wore a mackintosh and carried a brolly, but it took her only a moment to be certain that she didn’t recognize him—the hair peeking from his hat was fairest blond, and there was no one here who could say the same.

Under his arm he clutched a parcel.

Mabena shot upright, slipping the drawing into her pocket. “My lady! A man’s coming. With a package.”

Libby’s mug clattered back to the table. “For Beth, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” But the pounding of her heart said maybe, just maybe this one would have a clue that would tell them something useful. “You should be the one to answer the door, in case it’s for Beth.”

A mask of uncertainty settled over Libby’s face. “You don’t think I should say I’m not her? Ask him what he’s about?”

And scare off any future deliveries? “No. Just play along with it.”

“But . . .”

“How else can we help Oliver find his sister?”

Libby let out a breath. Nodded, even as footfalls joined with the pounding rain, and then a knock harmonized too. She stood, depositing the kitten on the sofa, and moved to the door. Mabena stayed out of sight, her fingers curled tightly around her mug.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon. Elizabeth?”

Her heart raced, even as she tried to place the accent. Cornish, without question. But not quite the cadence of a native islander. But of course it wouldn’t be a Scillonian—any native would know it wasn’t Elizabeth Tremayne at the door.

“That’s right. Though I wasn’t expecting a delivery today.”

What was she doing? Mabena’s nostrils flared.

The bloke, however, sounded a bit confused. “It’s Wednesday, ain’t it?”