The storm had been threatening Blackwater Bay since sunset, but it waited until the mourners arrived before it finally broke.
Rain hammered the tall windows of Ravenscourt House. Wind rushed in from the cliffs and pressed against the old mansion as if the sea itself wanted to enter.
Inside, nearly sixty people stood beneath the glass roof of the winter garden.
No one spoke above a whisper.
At the center of the room, surrounded by white orchids and branches of winter rosemary, lay Eleanor Wren.
She had been seventy-one years old, wealthy enough to own half the shoreline around Blackwater Bay and stubborn enough to spend most of her life refusing to behave like a wealthy woman.
She had built ferry terminals, restored schools, paid hospital bills for people whose names she never learned, and turned the small shipping company left by her father into an international business.
Now she lay beneath a pale linen shroud.
Dead.
At least that was what everyone had been told.
Nora Vale stood near the back of the winter garden, still wearing the dark blue dress she had put on that morning.
She had cared for Eleanor for almost four years.
Technically, Nora was a private nurse.
In practice, she had become something between an assistant, companion, bodyguard, and the one person in Ravenscourt who was allowed to tell Eleanor Wren when she was being impossible.
Three nights earlier, Eleanor had collapsed in the library.
Her younger brother Gideon had found her.
Dr. Owen Mercer, the family physician, had arrived twenty minutes later.
By dawn, Eleanor Wren had been declared dead.
A catastrophic cerebral event, Mercer had explained.
Quick.
Unexpected.
Merciful.
Nora had hated that word.
There had been nothing merciful about seeing Eleanor carried from the bedroom beneath a white sheet.
And there was nothing merciful about tonight.
Across the room stood Gideon Wren.
He was twelve years younger than his sister and looked almost untouched by grief.
His charcoal suit was perfect. His silver hair was perfect. Even the handkerchief in his breast pocket seemed to understand precisely how much mourning was appropriate.
He moved from guest to guest with solemn efficiency.
A hand on a shoulder.
A quiet thank-you.
A lowered gaze.
The grieving brother.
The responsible executive.
The man who would temporarily assume control of Wren Maritime until Eleanor’s estate was settled.
Nora watched him accept another condolence.
Something inside her tightened.
She had disliked Gideon for years.
Eleanor knew it.
Once, after a particularly vicious board meeting, Eleanor had asked why.
“Because he smiles before he lies,” Nora had answered.
Eleanor had laughed.
Tonight Gideon was smiling very little.
But Nora still had the same feeling.
At eleven thirty, most of the guests began moving toward the adjoining ballroom, where supper and coffee had been prepared.
Eleanor’s daughter, Lydia, remained beside her mother.
She was thirty-eight, exhausted, and red-eyed.
Nora walked toward her.
“You should eat something.”
Lydia shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“You haven’t eaten since morning.”
“I said I can’t.”
Nora didn’t argue.
Lydia touched the edge of her mother’s shroud.
“She hated orchids.”
Nora looked around at the hundreds of white flowers.
“I know.”
“Gideon ordered them.”
“That explains it.”
For the first time that evening, Lydia almost smiled.
Then a door opened behind them.
Gideon entered.
“There you are.”
Lydia turned.
“I want another hour with her.”
“The transport arrives at midnight.”
“Then tell them to wait.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened almost invisibly.
“Everything has been arranged.”
“My mother spent seventy-one years refusing to follow arrangements.”
“This is difficult for everyone.”
“No, Gideon. She’s my mother.”
“And my sister.”
Lydia looked away.
Gideon lowered his voice.
“The weather is getting worse. The roads along the cliffs may close. We cannot improvise tonight.”
Nora said nothing.
But one sentence bothered her.
We cannot improvise tonight.
Not shouldn’t.
Cannot.
Gideon looked at Nora.
“Would you give us a moment?”
Nora started toward the door.
Then she heard it.
A tiny sound.
Almost nothing.
She stopped.
Gideon glanced at her.
“What is it?”
Nora listened.
Rain against glass.
Wind in the chimney.
Muffled conversation from the ballroom.
Then—
Scratch.
Nora turned toward Eleanor.
Lydia noticed.
“What?”
“Quiet.”
Gideon’s expression changed.
“Nora.”
She lifted one hand.
“Please.”
They waited.
Nothing.
Gideon exhaled impatiently.
“This has been an emotional night.”
Nora stepped closer to the bier.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
She leaned toward Eleanor.
Another faint sound came from beneath the linen.