“Of course.” Lia pulled the familiar folder from her backpack and handed Abigail one of the photos in its protective sleeve.

Abigail pulled a pair of reading glasses from her sweater pocket and settled them on the bridge of her nose. “Oh yes, this is Sophie,” she murmured. “Though she looks like a film star here. I’ve never seen photos of her like this before—the ones your grandfather keeps here at Millbrook are mostly childhood photos and those taken before she left for Poland. Wherever did you get this?”

Lia glanced at him, and Gabriel nodded.

“I don’t suppose the name Estelle Allard means anything to you?” Lia asked.

“I don’t think so,” Abigail said. “Who is she?”

“She was my grandmother,” Lia told her. “And I found that picture in her apartment after she passed. In Paris.”

The housekeeper’s forehead creased. “Good heavens. What a small world. They must have been friends, yes?” She tapped the edge of the photo. “I think Sophie studied in Paris.”

“She did,” Gabriel confirmed. “In 1933 and ’34.”

Abigail turned the photo over and squinted at the date written in faded ink in the corner. “Wait. This photo says 1942. That can’t be right. Sophie died before that. In the bombing of Warsaw.”

Gabriel grimaced. “I’m not so sure anymore. That she died in Warsaw, that is.”

“You think she’s alive?” The housekeeper’s head came up so quickly that her glasses slid down her nose.

“No. I don’t think that, though I can’t really prove anything one way or the other at the moment.”

“Heavens. How…extraordinary.” Abigail took off her glasses and handed the photo back to Lia. “And you’ve come to ask your grandfather about it?”

“Yes. There is an issue of…some artwork wrapped up in this anomaly. Property we’re trying to return to rightful owners. My father doesn’t know anything. About the art or the photos. I was hoping Grandfather might.”

The housekeeper was shaking her head. “He doesn’t speak of those years. Of the war, or anything that went on during it.”

“I know. I’m hoping he might now.”

“You be careful. I don’t know what you’re thinking or what those photos mean but William’s heart is old and tired, and I’m not sure it could stand being broken all over again where his sister is concerned,” Abigail warned. “My mum told me that the loss of his parents was one thing but it was the loss of his sister that almost accomplished what the prison camps had failed to do.”

Gabriel shifted his bag on his shoulder. “I rather wish we could talk to your mum.”