“No! I was with him just five minutes ago. I give you my word on the soul of Grace Craven. Now please, come with me and I will show you where he is!” Mary knew she had to get him out quickly. She tugged his arm again, and this time he allowed her to pull him out of the room as the flames began to engulf it. His face was dazed.

Mary pulled him down the smoke-filled corridor, but as they reached the stairs there was a crack overhead and part of the ceiling fell down, the plaster burning. Mary yelped and jumped back. The house was burning down around them. “We need to find another way.”

She turned and led him past Colin’s room, but as they hurried through the smoke, the floor in front of them gave way, flames leaping up through it.

We’re trapped, thought Mary in despair. We’re going to be burned alive. She turned to her uncle. “Uncle, you know the house best. How can we get out?”

Coughing hard, her uncle collapsed on the floor.

“No!” she cried in dismay. “Please don’t—I can’t lift you.” She tried to drag him back to his feet, but he shook his head.

“Leave me. Please. Leave me here,” he said in despair.

Mary shook her head stubbornly. “No. Colin needs you.”

“I’ve ruined everything,” her uncle croaked.

Mary heard footsteps. Looking up, she saw the ghostly figures of her mother and Aunt Grace appear in the corridor. Her eyes met theirs—pleading, begging. In an instant, Grace was beside her, her hands helping her uncle to his feet. Then she was gone again, running to join her sister by the door that led to the hidden room. They both looked straight at Mary.

Mary was sure they were trying to help. “This way!” she gasped.

Mary helped her uncle along the corridor, following the ghostly figures. Her mother and Grace went into the room with the murals and disappeared through the wall into the secret room. Mary pressed the hidden catch and desperately pushed her uncle into the room, slamming the door behind them. The sisters were standing on the far side of the room. With a conspiratorial look, they suddenly vanished.

“No!” Mary cried. And then she saw it. Another door right where they had been standing. It was small and thin, disguised by the wallpaper, but it had a little round handle. Mary turned the handle, but the door was locked.

“Uncle, help me!” she cried, starting to kick at the flimsy door. She looked back at him. He was kneeling on the floor again, looking around at all the dresses, tears in his eyes. “I need your help!”