“Ridiculous,” Cécile said.

George laughed. “Madeline thought she saw her once. Beware, Emily, she may come for you next.”

“I’ll keep up my guard,” I said. “But why does she limit her search to France? Are there no decent mothers to be found elsewhere?”

“There might be, but the food wouldn’t be nearly so good,” Monsieur Leblanc said, and we all laughed.

A groom appeared from the direction of the barns standing on the opposite side of the grounds from the central building, close to a heavy dovecote built in the style of the nearby tower, all stone, no brick. He took our horses from us as our host led us inside, where Madeline greeted us at the thick, wooden door.

“It’s so good of you to come,” she said, kissing us both on the cheeks. “I’ve asked Cook to make a special fish course. We’ve mussels, as well, and I—”

“They’ve not come for dinner, darling,” George said, stepping forward and taking his wife’s hand. “Just tea, remember? And you asked for douillons.”

“Of course,” she said. She spoke with steady resolve, but looked confused.

“No one makes pastry finer than your cook,” Monsieur Leblanc said, his voice firm. “I am full of eager anticipation.”

“Let’s go to the library before we eat.” George’s words tumbled rapidly from his mouth, as if to redirect the conversation away from his wife’s blunder as quickly as possible. “I want to show you the note left by that dreadful man.”

“You are confident it’s from a man?” Cécile asked. “Do you not believe a woman might be equally devious?”

“I’d like to believe a woman wouldn’t be able to climb into my locked house with a painting on her back. Not, mind you, because I consider the fairer sex incompetent or lacking a propensity for crime. But surely a lady with the strength to accomplish such a thing would look awful in evening dress, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think she’d be elegant beyond measure, and deceive you completely in the ballroom.”

“And would make a most excellent villain. Perhaps I should write about her.” Monsieur Leblanc tilted his head and looked into the distance, as if deep in thought. “Only think of the adventures on which she might embark.”

“I shall not argue with any of you,” George said, leading us through the door into the keep’s cavernous hall, its arched ceiling supported by wide columns. The room was overfull of furniture. Around a sturdy table that might have comfortably seated a dozen, eighteen chairs had been set, too close together. Six suits of armor were on display, three separate sitting areas contained settees and more chairs, and on the walls hung a series of tapestries, finely embroidered with scenes of a hunt, the work as fine as that displayed on The Lady and the Unicorn set I’d seen in the Cluny museum in Paris.

“How beautiful,” I said, standing close to the first panel.

“They’ve been in the château since the fifteenth century,” Madeline said. “We think some long-ago grandmother of mine worked on them.”

“This was the center of the original castle,” George said. “Twelfth century. And as you can see, no owner has parted with even a shred of furnishing in the ensuing seven hundred years. The room above this serves as our library, but other than that, we don’t use the space for much but storage. A manor house was built later, and I’ve constructed a passage to connect the two buildings. Will you follow me upstairs?

He led us up a flight of hard stone steps to a much smaller room lined with bookcases. The windows were nearly nonexistent, better suited for shooting a crossbow than looking at the view of the garden below.

“It’s a horrible space, I know,” he said. “Terrible light. But then, there are those who say books should be protected from the sun.”

“Magnifique,” Cécile said. “Functional rather than beautiful. And impenetrable by enemies, I imagine.”

“Which was, no doubt, significant to the original builders. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I myself don’t feel in imminent danger of being under siege,” George said. Madeline laughed and kissed him, blushing when she realized we had all seen her.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “I do adore my husband.”

“Something for which you should never apologize,” I said.

Monsieur Leblanc blinked rapidly and shifted his feet in awkward embarrassment. “This would make an excellent writing space. Few distractions.”

“You’re welcome to use it any time.” Our host riffled through the drawers of an imposing desk fashioned from heavy ebony, pulled out a note, and handed it to me. “For your reading pleasure.”

I recognized the handwriting in an instant. There could be no doubt Sebastian had penned it. My Greek, which I’d been studying for nearly three years, was much better now than it had been when I last encountered the clever thief, and I translated the brief phrase at the bottom of the paper:



The passage had to be from the Greek Anthology, a collection of ancient epigrams. Sebastian quoted from it frequently in the earlier missives he’d sent me.