“Most people,” Georgiana had told her once, near the end, the two of them alone in the old woman’s study, “will hand you something pretty and call it a gift, when what they really want is for you to stop looking.

This isn’t that.” She had tapped the folder that held the trust.

“This isn’t a gift, Adele.

It’s a key.

Keep it somewhere safe, and don’t use it until you know exactly which door it opens.

You’ll know when it’s time.”