“Thank you, but no,” Mary-Ann said.
Across the room, the latest issue of theSommer Sentinellay folded open, its headline just visible from where she sat.
“The Dragon’s Wake,” read the headline. “Young Buccaneers Tell Their Story of Being Rescued from Sommer’s Hidden Caves.”
She rose and crossed to it.
The article took a lighthearted tone, built around the boys’ own version of events. They claimed to be young buccaneers on a treasure hunt, armed with a wooden sword and a sack of raisins. But their story, however innocent, unfolded alongside details that left Mary-Ann uneasy. They had wandered deep into the caves during low tide and were rescued just as the water began to rise.
One of the rescuers was quoted as saying the cave had been unusually cleared out as though someone had been through just ahead of them.
It was the final paragraph that caught her attention.
“Rescuers reported broken boards and debris strewn inside the cave, likely remnants of fishing or smuggling operations long abandoned. One plank bore the faded letters ‘DWA.’ Evidence, perhaps, that a dragon’s hoard now scattered by the sea.”
Mary-Ann’s brow furrowed. DWA. She read it again. Slowly. Redwake.
She pressed a hand to the table’s edge. The boys had gone looking for dragons, but what had they nearly found instead? The article called it whimsy. She saw something else. If a child could stumble into danger that easily, what else had passed unnoticed? Had she been wrong to let it go, to think she had more time?
She wondered how long the cave had been used and how many others had wandered too close. She folded the Sentinel and put it on the sideboard.
Mr. Hollis quietly entered the room, carrying a folded note on a tray. “A message from Mrs. Bainbridge.”
From behind her, Lydia’s voice rang out. “Planning a seaside outing, miss?”
“MissFinch,” Mr. Hollis corrected gently, “the young lady is addressed asMiss Seaton.”
Lydia flushed, then dipped into a curtsy that was a beat too late.
“Thank you, Mr. Hollis.” Mary-Ann took the note from the tray and read it.
She looked up at the maid. “I was just reading, Miss Finch.” Mary-Ann carefully folded the note and tucked it into her pocket.
“I imagine it must be dull, all this quiet,” Lydia said sweetly. “I could arrange a call for you. I understand that Lady Alverton is in town.”
“Lady Alverton is seventy-nine and has not left her drawing room in a decade.”
Lydia blinked. “Oh. I must have been mistaken. One of the housemaids mentioned her,” Lydia added quickly. “She said Lady Alverton was a friend of the family.”
Mary-Ann’s gaze didn’t waver. “She was. Once.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp, but it was deliberate.
Mary-Ann’s smile was cool. “Do you like to read, Miss Finch? Or do you prefer embroidery?”
“Oh, I don’t do much of either,” Lydia replied lightly. “I find the days more enjoyable when they’re spent in cheerful company.”
“And what about cards?”
Lydia’s smile tightened. “Only if the company is of a genteel sort.”
Mary-Ann tilted her head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She excused herself. As she passed one of the footmen, she caught a faint roll of his eyes as Lydia walked behind her.
Interesting. Not everyone, it seemed, was pleased with Miss Finch’s presence. And that, too, was useful.
But it left Mary-Ann uneasy. Lydia had threaded herself through the household quickly. She knew the rhythms of the staff and inserted herself into their errands, their tea breaks, and their comings and goings. And yet, the signs of strain were beginning to show. She noticed the pinched expressions, the glances that lingered too long. The smallest cracks in a surface too carefully smoothed. She would have to keep watch. Quietly.
