The carriage rattled through Maplewood's rain-lashed lanes, the gallop of horses echoing Theodore's fraying resolve. Eliza sat rigid beside him, her gloved hands clenched in her lap. Jem's absence was a phantom limb, aching and raw.
"Margaret will have answers," she said, breaking the silence that had stretched from Naples to Kent.
"Answers?" Theodore's laugh was a hollow thing. "She's a vault of lies."
"Then we pry it open."
Willowmere Hall loomed ahead, its windows dark save for a single flicker in the library. Corbyn's doing, no doubt.
* * *
Margaret awaited them in the conservatory, her silhouette etched against the storm. She turned, her eyes twin shards of ice. "You've come to accuse me again."
Theodore flung the empty coffin's seal onto the table. "Alessandra. Where is she?"
Margaret's composure fractured. "Gone. Taken. I paid to keep her safe—"
"*Safe*?" Theodore's voice shook. "Or hidden?"
Eliza stepped between them. "Men took her. The same who have Jem. Why?"
Margaret's laugh was a brittle crack. "Because my father owed more than money. He promised them *her*. A debt repaid in flesh."
Theodore recoiled. "You sold your child?"
"To save her from *him*!" Margaret's tears cut through the rouge. "Rivoli would have killed her. The convent was a ruse. The men—they were meant to take her far away. But they vanished. Until now."
Eliza gripped the serpent ring. "Corbyn has her. He's using her to break you."
"Then let him." Margaret sank into a chair. "I am already broken."
* * *
The study door creaked open. Corbyn lounged in Theodore's chair, Jem bound at his feet. The boy's eyes widened—*alive*.
"Touching reunion," Corbyn drawled. "Now, the letters."
Theodore edged forward. "Where's Alessandra?"
"Safe. For now." Corbyn tossed a dagger onto the desk. "Cut the boy free, and I'll consider mercy."
Eliza lunged for the blade, but Corbyn was faster, yanking Jem upright. "Ah-ah. The letters first."
Theodore withdrew the forged documents. "Take them. Let the boy go."
Corbyn's smirk curdled. "You think I want *paper*? I want the *truth*. Margaret's confession. In her hand. Or the girl dies screaming."
Jem whimpered. Eliza's mind raced. *Stall. Distract.* "You'll kill them anyway. Why play this game?"
"Because watching Ashford beg is sweeter than gold."
Theodore's hand inched toward his pistol. "Last chance, Corbyn."
A shot rang out.
* * *
Margaret stood in the doorway, smoke curling from the dueling pistol in her hands. Corbyn crumpled, shock etched in his lifeless eyes.
Jem scrambled to Eliza, his small frame trembling. Margaret's arm dropped, the pistol clattering. "I should have done that years ago."
Theodore stared at his sister. "Alessandra—where is she?"
Margaret's smile was a ghost. "Find her. The ring… the serpent points north."
She sagged against the doorframe, crimson blooming at her temple. *Poison.*
"Theo…" Her breath rattled. "Forgive…"
* * *
Dawn gilded Willowmere's gardens as they buried Margaret beside the roses. Jem clung to Eliza, silent tears soaking her sleeve. Theodore placed the serpent ring on the grave. "Where now?"
Eliza unfolded Margaret's final note, found clutched in her hand. *A single word: Whitby.*
"North," she said.
Theodore's hand brushed hers. "Together?"
"Always."
The road ahead was shadowed, but for the first time, it was theirs.