There was no kindness in the warning, but there was a deep, pervasive tiredness. Maya saw it then—beneath the severe posture, Mrs. Gordon was exhausted.

They stopped outside the locked door at the far end of the second floor, the only one with a small brass plate: polished clean but empty of any name, a thin line of dust lying along the threshold.

Maya’s eyes lingered there for only a second, but Mrs. Gordon noticed instantly. “You do not look at that door,” she said sharply.

Maya lowered her gaze immediately. “I understand.”

“No,” Mrs. Gordon said quietly, “you don’t. But perhaps that’s better for your own peace of mind.”

A sound came from downstairs—a door closing with a final, heavy thud. Mrs. Gordon straightened instantly. “Mr. Penhaligon has returned.”