He watched her go, pressing his lips against the quivering in them. Beth should be here, helping him determine what to do. And Morgan—he missed his brother’s counsel, that somber wisdom always to be found in his eyes. But he hadn’t his brother. Hadn’t his sister. Hadn’t his parents. His eyes slid shut. Help me, Father God. You’re the only one I have to turn to.

When he opened his eyes again, he finally thought to look at the paper Casek had thrust at him. A coat of arms, a family crest. Not one that he saw regularly, but . . . but it looked familiar. He stared at it for a long moment before spinning for the stairs and taking them two by two, then running down the hallway until he was at Beth’s closed bedroom door.

He had been in here not long ago to put away the items she’d left in the cottage. But he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. Now, though, he aimed straight for the shelves in the corner, full of trinkets she’d collected over the years as she explored the islands or received as gifts from their parents or other family and friends.

His eyes moved over the familiar assortment of baubles and shells and sea glass, looking for the trinket box she’d always kept in a place of honor, ever since Mother had given it to her from her own collection. It was usually right there, on the middle of the middle shelf, proudly showcasing the gold-leafed crest that he thought matched the one on this paper. Only empty space stared back.

Oliver’s brows knotted. He couldn’t remember the wooden box’s story entirely—something about a long-gone relative, a noble-born love lost at sea. Beth had loved the story though. It had fueled her own dreams of finding a love with a man from a noble family, he knew.

But it was gone. Along with his sister. Which meant . . . what exactly? That she still had it with her, wherever she was?

That made precious little sense. But then, nothing did anymore.

13

The telegram sat on her dressing table, yellow and watchful. Proof that even from hundreds of miles away, Libby’s mother still knew when she was tempted to bow out of an engagement and stay home with her books and microscope. If she didn’t attend the Wights’ dinner party tonight, Mama would know. Somehow she would know, and another telegram would come, or a letter—or worst case, she herself would appear at the door, reproof in every lovely line of her face.

It was a fear bigger than that of sitting through a boring dinner that kept Libby’s bottom planted on the stool while Mabena fussed with her hair. And fussed some more. And fussed again.