Lia slipped through the door and mounted the stairs. Here the air was stagnant, the scent of dust and age distinct. The stairway was lit only by the diffuse light coming from somewhere above—daylight streaming through small windows, she guessed. At the top, she paused and Gabriel joined her, reaching just over her head to tug on a dangling string.

More light flooded the space from a series of exposed bulbs mounted above them, and Lia got her first look at the attic of the manor house. It was a little bit like a movie, she thought. In the center of the long, wide space was a collection of furniture from the previous two centuries. Chairs and headboards, small tables and desks, and even an old grandfather clock. On one side of the attic, large trunks of varying ages were stacked one on top of another, intermingled with a collection of cardboard boxes and plastic tubs. Along the other side, tall wooden braces had been built, hundreds of canvases and large frames stored upright in between.

Lia stepped closer to the wooden braces bolted to the floor. A small canvas leaned against the support nearest her, another hopeful little landscape of Millbrook. She would have bet her entire bank balance that if she picked it up, William Seymour would be scrawled on the bottom corner.

“Tell me that this is not where all your art goes,” Lia said before she could stop herself.

Gabriel pushed by her into the space. “Some gets moved up here in preparation for the movie crews. Most is not period accurate or they have their own art props they wish to hang,” he said, not answering her question at all.

Lia exhaled. Like in the reading room earlier, she could almost feel him withdrawing from her at the mention of his own work. A tall, narrow canvas jutted above the others, and from where she stood Lia could make out the torso of another ballet dancer, painted in swirling ivory and violet hues. Her fingers twitched with the desire to yank it from its banishment and bring it out into the light. She forced herself to look away.

“What are we looking for?” she asked, venturing farther into the attic.

Gabriel skirted the collection of furniture and set an ancient rocking chair aside to crouch in front of an old steamer trunk. “Probably a box or maybe a trunk like this.” He put a hand on the top, wiping at the layer of dust. “Abigail’s mum, Imogen, died in 1990. She lived at Millbrook all her life, so anything that wasn’t discarded or donated after she passed would probably be up here somewhere.” He peered at the latch. “Though I confess I’m doubtful that anything she kept might solve the mystery of how Sophie’s photos ended up in Paris or what they might have to do with a cache of hidden art.”