When she’d heard the startled footsteps behind her, she’d thought for sure she’d be in trouble—there she was, the daughter of the house, lying on her stomach in the gardens. But instead of a horrified gasp or a quick rebuke, polished black shoes had come into view seconds before the owner of them had crouched down beside her.

He must have been a friend of Bram’s, given his age. But her brother hadn’t called her in for any introductions, which meant he wasn’t of a society that he deemed acceptable for her. Probably a school chum who had heard about his loss and been in the neighborhood. She didn’t know. And it hadn’t mattered.

All that had mattered was that he watched the caterpillar with her for five silent minutes. And then had touched a finger to the leaf and told her how the plants in the Brassicaceae family were the favored food source of the Pieris rapae when they were in their larval stage. He’d answered her questions about the mustard plant’s reproduction. Then told her about the neighboring stalks and stems too, while she sat up and took frantic notes.

She didn’t know who he was. But he’d brightened an otherwise miserable time in her life, and she thought of him every time she wondered about a plant whose name she didn’t know. The Botanist—her version of a fairy godmother . . . or godfather, as the case may be. Or perhaps godbrother, if such a thing existed, as he was far too young to be a parental figure.

Were he here, he’d tell her about the flowers nestled among the grasses. He’d examine her sketch of them and perhaps correct a small detail she’d gotten wrong. He’d provide the Latin names and tell her about the cycles of blooming and seeding. Probably then enlighten her about the commercial flower trade that she knew provided much of the Scillies’s livelihood and how each bloom had made its way here.

But he wasn’t here, of course. So she’d have to settle for finding a book.

Her fingers traced the debossed design on the cover of the other book she’d brought out with her. Certainly not a treatise on flora. No, Treasure Island. She’d glanced through it yesterday afternoon but had been too aware of all the people about to really look overlong. Now she had it all to herself.

Handwritten notes were all throughout the pages. In the margins. Occasionally between the lines, or circling words. The script was feminine, leading her to guess that it was another something left behind by the Other Elizabeth, whose things were scattered through the house.