It had a small desk by the window, which would be perfect for her microscope. It hadn’t space enough to hold all her art supplies, but she could designate part of the chest of drawers for that. She moved to it now and opened the top drawer.

And froze. Inside were blouses. A lovely shawl in heather blue. And a book lying open on the top, pages down. Treasure Island. Libby picked it up, her brows knotting when she saw the pages had folded on themselves. Her stomach twisted. The book had clearly been dropped into the drawer, not placed there. She smoothed the pages, her frown increasing. Was that handwriting amid the printed words?

What had Mrs. Pepper said about the previous occupant? That she’d “vanished before the second month was out.” Vanished . . . but left her things behind.

“In here, then.”

At Mabena’s brusque voice, Libby moved the book behind her back, not ready to have it snatched away just yet. Mabena was looking over her shoulder as she entered, clearly leading someone in. Though when she turned back around, her gaze seemed to take the situation in with startling speed. She frowned. “What’s this? You can’t have unpacked already. You hadn’t clothing in your valise.”

Libby rocked on her heels and shrugged. She should probably show the book to Mabena, but she’d rather examine it first. “Not mine, but the drawers are already full.”

Mabena’s huff sounded irritated. But her eyes sparked with . . . something. Curiosity? Or did she feel the same uncanny dread that coursed through Libby’s veins? Regardless, she stalked over to the dresser and simply scooped out the stranger’s things. “I’ll take care of it. And of your unpacking. Go on outside. I know you want to.”

Because it was expected of her, Libby grinned. But she felt a bit guilty as she slipped by the stevedore and out the door, clutching the book to her stomach once she was past.

Everything always made more sense out in nature. And this . . . this could use a good dose of sense. Currently, it had none.

2

6 JUNE
TRESCO, ISLES OF SCILLY

Oliver Tremayne leaned forward as far as he could, the oars two wooden extensions to his arms. He breathed in as he bent, exhaled as he leaned back, his arms—the wooden parts of them, anyway—slicing through the crystal waters as his gig skimmed the top of them. Faster. Faster.

Sweat poured down his torso, soaking his shirt. He looked up, sighting the beach that would be their finish line. “Almost there, lads! We’ll take them this morning!”

From the bench behind came a chorus of cheerful grunts as other arms-and-oars matched his pace. Oliver grinned through the exertion. He enjoyed a solitary row too, but there was nothing like a five-man gig to really set one flying over the waves.

“Look alert!” This from Enyon in the rear. “They’re gaining on us!”