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put his shoulder to the butt of the casket. Clara said a silent goodbye, expecting the box to glide gracefully behind the door. Not so. Oscar pushed until he was red in the face, but succeeded in moving the box only a few inches. The stone slab the casket rested on scraped and squeaked dreadfully, and so little progress was made that the reverend joined him and pushed too.
    The scene repelled Clara. It was almost as if Mrs. Glendoveer did not want to go! By the time the box was finally shoved inside the crypt and the door closed, Clara was shaking with emotion.
    Her mother knelt down and examined her. “You look pale,” she said.
    “I’m all right,” said Clara, but her knees were wobbling. Before she knew it, she was lying among the muddy boot prints on the floor.
    “Allow me,” said the man with the pince-nez. He helped Clara to her feet and she retreated into her mother’s arms. “These ceremonies are difficult for children. It’s not uncommon for them to swoon. Should we get some air?”
    “Thank you,” said Harriet, pulling Clara close. “You must be the director. Would you know who sent the lilies?”
    “Oh, I’m not the director,” said the man. “But I can tell you who sent the lilies. It was George Glendoveer.”
    Now Clara’s head was swimming. She had no idea how many Glendoveers there were, either alive or dead.
    The man extended his hand. “I’m Clayton Merritt-Blenney, of the firm Fitzmorris Blenney. I’m the attorney for the Glendoveer estate.”
    Mrs. Glendoveer received so little mail that Clara remembered seeing letters from Fitzmorris Blenney Partners and wondering who they might be. She heard a little gasp and saw that her mother might be the one now in danger of fainting.
    “Ruby,” Harriet said, “please take Clara to the carriage.”
    Ruby’s strong hand was at Clara’s back, and Clara felt herself pushed down the walkway at a quick clip.
    Ruby stayed quiet until the nosy driver had closed the carriage door. “Do you know that man?” Clara asked.
    “I know of him,” she said, peering through the window. She took out her hankie, wiped her face, and began to fan herself.
    “Is Mama in trouble?”
    “We’ll see,” Ruby said.
    “But why?”
    Ruby threw up her hands. “Because,” she said, going red in the face, “we could be out on the street, bag and baggage!” She began to sob. “So sorry. Deary me, I don’t knowhow your ma does it. Excuse me if your old Ruby wasn’t born with a cast-iron constitution.…”
    Clara pressed against the window. Her mother was listening to Mr. Merritt-Blenney, bobbing her head, but her veil obscured her expressions. Finally, the lawyer reached into his breast pocket and produced a card. Harriet studied it and curtseyed quickly as the man tipped his hat to her.
    “Here she comes,” said Ruby. “Marching like a soldier.”
    No sooner had the coachman helped Clara’s mother aboard and closed the door than she threw back her veil and showed her gleaming face.
    “Great merciful God,” she said. “We are given a reprieve!”
    Ruby fell upon her, crushing her in an embrace. Clara was happy too, but still felt unsettled. She had been on the verge of peril and never had an inkling.
    “Tell us,” Clara said. “Who saved us?”
    “George and Cenelia Glendoveer, that’s who,” her mother said, letting out a laugh. “The story is strange. In short, Mr. Glendoveer provided for the house to be kept open and in readiness for fifty years after the disappearance of his youngest child.”
    “You mean Elliot?” said Clara.
    “Yes. You knew about him? I must say I’m surprised.”
    “Mrs. Glendoveer showed me the baby’s picture. But I thought he had died.”
    “No,” said Ruby. “The baby was taken. No one knows who did it or what happened to him after that.”
    “Which is why George Glendoveer wanted the house maintained in case of his return,” her mother said. “And Mrs. Glendoveer did him one better. She added a codicil to