Inside the folder were three years of federal tax records and receipts for lumber, brass hinges, and plaster work that Grant had asked her to organize for his land purchases.

The second-floor corridor smelled of lemon wax, old paper, and coal smoke from the basement furnace.

High overhead, brass light fixtures cast long yellow circles on the dark oak wainscoting.

Caroline stopped three feet from the frosted glass door of room two hundred four, where a gilded plaque read Vance and Miller, Attorneys at Law.

The heavy door stood open an inch to let air from the hallway radiator circulate.

“We need the docket entry recorded before the Friday court recess,” a woman said from inside the room.