Underground, it is like a colony of ants, with servants racing back and forth through a maze of tunnels that lead to every corner of the castle. The servants push wheeled carts through the tunnels at a breakneck pace; Weed and I must press ourselves flat against the wall to avoid being run over. The only light in the tunnels comes from above, through small circular windows made of thick glass set directly in the ground above our heads, like portholes in a capsized ship.

“Pardon me,” I shout above the clatter of wheels and dishes to a passing serving man. “We have a parcel for Mrs. Flume. It is urgent.”

The man can barely hear us. “Who d’ ye want?”

“Mrs. S. Flume!”

“Susannah Flume, did you say? She’s not here, she’s …”

His explanation gets lost in the din. Through gestures I signal that I cannot understand, and he motions for us to follow him. He leads us down long tunnels, past the smoky, blazing hot kitchen. Sweaty, bare-armed cooks and scullery maids chop, peel, stir, and keep themselves from passing out by drinking endless pints of small ale.

We keep going, through more winding tunnels and up a narrow stair that releases us back into the sunlight. We clamber down a grassy slope dotted with sheep until we reach the spot where an arched stone bridge spans the river Aln. Halfway across the bridge a great stone lion, the emblem of the duke’s family, stands guard.

“There’s the woman you seek,” the man says. “That child of hers couldn’t even get a proper burial—anyone dies these days, they say it’s the plague.” He gestures ahead. “That’s all the funeral the poor thing’ll have.”

On the bank of the river, a small group of people surround a weeping woman. At her feet is a large basket of wildflowers, picked from the abundance of the meadow. One by one, the mourners toss the flower stalks into the water. They float sadly on the current until they disappear around the curve of the river.

One of the party, a girl in a rough linen apron, approaches us.

“Are you relatives?” she asks in a quivering voice.

“I am Jessamine Luxton,” I say quickly. “My father is Thomas Luxton, the apothecary. A fever remedy was sent for; we came to deliver it.”

“You are good to come, Miss Luxton, and you, too, sir.” The girl curtsies to Weed. “You are very kind to come all this way. Tell your father—tell him we’re very grateful.” She can say no more, and someone leads her away.

Weed looks at me blankly, uncomprehending.

“We are too late,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.

The man who led us here nods. “Aye, miss. The child died this morning.”

“I am so sorry. Father only got word yesterday.”

“The fever came on too fast. Poor bairn.”