But I am going to need train fare and money for food. Maybe there is cash in the strongbox. Maybe . . .

I turn to Belinda.

“I think we need to carefully plan what we’re going to do and how we’re going to do it. And I think we need to see what Martin has been hiding in the boiler room.”

She stares at me, with no idea of what I am talking about.

“Come with me.” I hurry out of the room and Belinda follows me. We cross the foyer into the kitchen, and there is sweet Kat at the butler’s table by the window, drawing pictures of birds and butterflies and coloring them with her wax crayons. For Baby, she has written on the tops of the pages.

I smile down on her and squeeze her shoulder. I lack the fortitude to speak to her just now, but she is immersed in her task as a big sister and doesn’t seem to notice. I head to the door that opens onto the stairway to the boiler room. I pull it open and lift my skirt as I take the steps.

“Close the door behind you,” I quietly instruct Belinda. I don’t want Kat following us down.

I flip on the electrical switch for the one incandescent bulb that hangs in the center of the low-ceilinged room. The wooden lid on the vault is closed and padlocked, but I grab the heavy wrench by the boiler that is used to loosen or tighten its valves. I raise it above my head and bring it down on the padlock and hinges, causing Belinda to gasp in surprise. It takes only a few blows for the padlock to skitter away, freed from the wooden planking of the lid, still locked. I lift the lid and rest it against the wall. Ten bottles of what I am sure is not hair tonic rest inside on the shelf Martin made. I reach for one, crack open its seal, and uncork it. I raise the bottle to my nose and catch the strong scent of vinegar.

I let the bottle fall to the ground. It breaks and Belinda startles backward in surprise. In the puddle of broken glass and vinegar are silt and dirt and bits of white rock. And then in the sallow light cast by the one bulb, a shimmering misshapen orb the size of a raisin appears in the spread of liquid and stony mush.

It gleams like the summer sun. Gold.

I look up at Belinda, who is staring wide-eyed at the luminous object on the wet floor.

“This is why he sought you out,” I say. “He wanted your father’s mine.”

Belinda raises her head to look at me. “But there’s nothing in the mine. It’s been abandoned for decades. There’s nothing there! My grandfather and father knew its every inch. There was nothing in it!”

I take out another bottle and drop it to the ground, and it shatters. Two more pea-sized shiny orbs appear in the vinegary puddle of silt and stones, both hugged in the wet embrace of rippling, crumbling white rock. I draw out a third and repeat. Another misshapen lump appears, this one the size of a small, halved lima bean, with bits of stone clinging to it.