“Maya Snyder,” she read from a crisp sheet of paper. “Born in Clearwater, six years in Ironwood, native English speaker, some French. Come inside.”

The tour of the house was fast and precise, every room with its own set of unwritten rules. The kitchen had rules, the guest rooms had rules, the laundry room had rules—but two were repeated more gravely than all the others.

Mr. Penhaligon’s study was absolutely forbidden territory, and nothing on his massive desk was ever to be touched or moved.

“And the room at the far end of the second floor stays locked at all times,” the woman warned.

Maya glanced toward the hallway with a flicker of natural curiosity. “Why is that?” she asked, feeling the sudden tension in the air.

Mrs. Gordon stopped walking and turned, her eyes sharpening like glass. “Because Mr. Penhaligon ordered it that way,” she said. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper.