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covered in a patchwork quilt with lots of hand-tied knots. If possible, it seemed smaller than a twin bed. Who had had to sleep here?
    I knelt on the floor to open the trunk. Its surprisingly heavy lid creaked. I stared inside at the network of cubbies. Rather than one big empty space, as I’d imagined those large trunks would hold, it was divided into little sections and drawers, all covered in peeling rosebud wallpaper. Poking around, I saw old-fashioned underthings in plain white muslin and lots of heavy black dresses. In the last place I looked, I found floor-length white aprons. Of course! Only a maid would sleep in a room this small.
    I stood, holding one of the aprons to my chest. I was about to hook the ties around my neck, but instead let it drop to the floor, my fingers trembling.
    I took two steps to reach the window to the outside. I pulled aside the gauzy curtain, thick with gray debris—and saw the long plunge down to the ground. But something embedded in the glass itself caught my eye. I rubbed my fingers against the window until a circle of clean glass showed through. Someone had etched a message.
    I shook my head. No, I wasn’t seeing this.
    The poor little babes, it said, in very old-fashioned writing.
    It seemed to be evidence for what Miles had said, that Madame Arnaud drank children’s blood. But I didn’t want to believe it. I began thinking furiously, trying to craft different reasons for a maid to scratch this particular message into the glass. Her own miscarriages?
    In the corner of the window, something began moving, and I saw that it was Mom, outside walking the courtyard with Tabitha on her hip. Tabby was wearing a blue seersucker dress, and pulling at Mom’s hair. I can’t describe how surreal that felt, stuck in the heart of that dark stone house, and seeing the two of them out there, smiling.
    I tried to open the window, but it didn’t budge. I began to panic, for no good reason. The house wasn’t on fire, and I wasn’t trying to cast myself out of the window. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t opening.
    Below me, winding up the booky staircase from down the hall, came one note from the organ. A brief sound, almost ignorable.
    But to make sound come from the organ, someone had to pump the foot pedals first. It would never utter a whisper by itself—a boulder could fall on the keys and they would sink down soundlessly.
    I froze, my heart racing. “Steven?” I called.
    He must have noticed the door key was gone and followed me in, and was playing the organ to let me know the jig was up.
    â€œSteven?” I yelled again, at the top of my lungs.
    Too loud, don’t make the house angry .
    No answer.
    My body flooded with adrenaline, my heart feeling three sizes larger and flailing around in my chest like an out-of-control animal. The servant’s room had trapped me.
    No one knew I was here. The mansion’s size meant no one would hear me screaming. I was completely vulnerable to whoever was playing the organ.
    The only way out was back through the ballroom . . . where the organ’s player waited. I looked around the miniature room frantically—was there any kind of weapon? I pulled the house key from my pocket; although it was huge it was dull.
    I tried to quiet my panting breath and listen.
    The mansion was quiet . . . too quiet. It felt like it was listening to me .
    I looked at the open bookcase door, wanting to push it closed, keeping me hidden in the maid’s room. But I couldn’t remember if it squeaked.
    I crept toward it. If the person had hunted me into the library, my movement would be detected. I’d have to close the door quickly and absolutely silently. Thank God I had put back all the books on the other side, or the sprawl of books in front of the shelf would be a giveaway.
    I sucked in a deep breath as I began to ease the door closed, just like I was taught in photography class: to be absolutely