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then close my mind to the thought. It’s an old superstition, and not one that I believe in.
    â€œWhere have you gotten to, George?” I mutter.
    I’m turning back toward the hall when I see the painting on his easel. It stops me midturn and fills me with an uneasy feeling.
    The canvas is large, half-finished, and darker in every way than his usual works. I can see at once that it’s a rendering of Walthingham’s wintry woods. White birches curve from a dark plane of raw ground into a foreboding sky. Shadows gather among the twisted roots of the trees. Though the canvas is dominated by trees, the roots draw the eye. I stand a moment, staring into them, as if I might find something crouching there.
    The swirls of paint still look a little fresh, and I press the back of my thumbnail lightly to its surface. It gives wetly to my touch. Surely yesterday’s work would be drier by now, unless … unless he was out painting this morning. There’s little in this dark canvas that speaks of the blue I spied on his wrist last night—but for a faint daubing right in the top corner, streaked with gray, a window of sky breaking through the gloom.
    My cloak, gloves, and soft boots are laid out in my dressing room, ready for the trip to London. I layer them over my dress, not bothering to call for Elsie. Of course George hasn’t gone without me. Carrick must be mistaken. My brother has never been one for timekeeping, always showing up long after supper had cooled, always vague with his plans. But a sister is not a missed meal—George wouldn’t just leave me behind. I bound down the stairs, Stella at my heels.
    The crisped snow squeaks beneath my heels as I stride toward the stables. I can smell the horses before I see them. The familiar warmth of packed hay and the animals’ big bodies always calms me, and I take a deep breath as I pass through the stable gate. I hear the faint sound of nickering—then, beneath it, something else. A woman’s laughter, teasing and low.
    Peeking around the corner, I see a high bale of sweet, freshly turned hay … and atop it, my dressing maid, her hair falling from its bun and her arms wrapped tight around Matthew, the boy who stables our horses.
    They must hear my gasp, because two faces turn toward me at once, one red and one pale as whey. Matt grabs his discarded hat from the straw, attempts the world’s most sheepish bow, and flees into the nearest stall.
    Elsie, not so quick, can barely meet my eyes as she stands, putting her clothes back into order. I have many long moments to inspect the stitching of my glove before she manages to speak. “Don’t tell your cousin, I beg you,” she whispers. “Or Mrs. Whiting. She’ll send me away at once.”
    The housekeeper is even less tolerant of trespasses in etiquette than Grace is, and I have no doubt that Elsie’s right.
    â€œI won’t tell anyone,” I say. “Your secret is safe with me.”
    I raise my voice a bit, attempting to sound dignified. “Matthew, I’m traveling to Bath today. If you would, please have the carriage ready as soon as possible.” I notice then that my brother’s horse is not in his stall. “Where’s Croxley?”
    Matthew moves shyly back into view, peering over the stall door.
    â€œMr. Randolph must have taken him out. He was gone first thing.”
    First thing? We can’t have gone to bed until one. “I hardly think my brother would have been riding in the freezing cold at dawn,” I say.
    â€œI’m afraid I wasn’t here, my lady,” he says. “I was polishing boots in the scullery.”
    The last I saw of George, he was tottering up the main staircase, clutching the banister like a man on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. And the last thing we spoke of was the trip to London, of taking it together—surely he could not have forgotten?
    If I hurry, I can make the coach