“A letter,” I said slowly. “Someone wants to meet us at Waverly House.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That creepy place?”

“Apparently.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s about the girl from yesterday. Like, a reward or something.”

I laughed nervously. “That’s not why you saved her.”

“I know. But maybe we should go. Just to see.”

By two-thirty, we were winding up the narrow road to the mansion. The gates, usually locked and rusted, stood open. The drive had been freshly graveled. On the wide stone steps, a tall woman in a slate-blue dress waited.

She must have been in her late fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a low bun. Her posture was regal but slightly tense, like someone who hadn’t welcomed guests in years. As we stepped out of the car, she came forward, hands clasped.

“Mrs. Bennett? Lucas? Thank you for coming. I’m Helena Whitmore.”