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“That’s not entirely true,” Thornhollow objected, glancing at the clock. “I couldn’t recall her name at all, so I chose one.”

Adelaide shrugged. “Whatever the case, my job was done without a finger lifted.”

“And why is it your job, exactly?” Thornhollow asked, irritation slipping back into his voice.

“Because, little brother, you’re the last of the Thornhollows,” Adelaide said, her eyes thinning to slits over a well-worn argument. “My last name is no good to anybody since I have to give it up or bear a bastard, which carries its own stain. Mother would die if you got a baby on a girl she didn’t deem worthy, and she’ll die if you don’t manage to get one on anybody at all.” She nodded to the clock herself. “Ticktock.”

Grace’s knife struck her plate with a teeth-chattering clash, her eyes wide and face pale.

“I hardly think that’s the comment to lose your head over,” Adelaide said, but Grace ignored her.

“Doctor,” she said, her voice a barely contained whisper. “Doctor, I think I’ve got it.”

“By God, Grace,” Thornhollow said as his eyes roved over the chalkboard. “You could be right.”

They were safely tucked back in his office after leaving Adelaide in a rush, anxious to get back to the asylum. Thornhollow’s sister had scribbled down her Boston address quickly and placed it in Grace’s hands before they left. She rubbed her fingers over the thick stationery idly, her thoughts preoccupied by the board.

“It’s mystified me from the beginning,” Grace said. “Why start now? Your sister’s words to you over dinner made me look at it in a different light. What if he’s under pressure to marry? If he’s always been incompetent with women, it would be his shameful secret. To suddenly be thrust into a marriage where another will know his inability might be too painful to bear.”

“That very well could be,” Thornhollow said, hands on his hips. “If he doesn’t want to meet with the same defeat on his wedding night, he may be attempting to practice—if you will—with these girls. His failure results in a rage. If I’m correct and there’s an overbearing mother in the picture, she may be demanding grandchildren and watching the clock as her son grows older. That helps narrow down the field, if we can assume this is no spring chicken we’re trying to nab.”

“What about the girl in the snow and the lull in killings?” Grace asked. “Are you still convinced it’s a town doctor we’re looking for?”

“I am.” Thornhollow nodded. “Her name was Jenny, by the way. Jenny Cantor. I remembered on the way back home. And her death doesn’t change my thoughts. He made his first kills in the city, where he felt safe. The kitchen girl was an opportunity—perhaps while out driving or visiting a country patient.”

Grace thought for a second, piecing through Thornhollow’s argument in order to find any loose threads he may consider bound up.

“What if he’s not an only child?”

He shook her off immediately. “No, all the evidence of his intelligence and planning points to an only child, or older sibling. Which, if we are to follow your line of thought, he’d have to be the only male child in order to feel the pressure of continuing the family line—which, I assure you, can be quite intense.”

“What if he had an older brother who died recently?” Grace went on, ignoring his confidence. “That would explain why he suddenly has that weight to carry, and it has morphed into these horrible actions.”

“I don’t see it,” Thornhollow said.

“What if you’re wrong?” Grace insisted.

“What if you’re wrong?” he shot back. “It’s possible we’re both completely off and our killer is a middle-aged mother of four who simply wants to fill her evenings with a little bloodshed.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Grace said. “I’m going to bed.” She was at the office door before she turned, temper extinguished. “I wanted to thank you for dinner, and for meeting your sister. She was really quite lovely, in the end.”

“Oh yes,” the doctor said, slipping into the chair by the fire. “All the Thornhollows are, once you get used to us.”

Grace returned to her room to find an envelope addressed to her resting on the pillow. Reed’s careful handwriting sent her heart into her throat, and she tossed Adelaide’s address on her nightstand to tear into the envelope. Pages fell out, one of them weather-beaten and misshapen by the elements. Grace set it aside, preferring Alice’s voice to be the last she heard before falling asleep. Falsteed’s letter was short, its message frightening.

Dearest Grace—

I know that the long interval while you waited to hear from your sister may have seemed unbearable, but I fear what reaction the wished-for letter will bring. Reed has been as vigilant as can be expected, given the Boston winter, but I imagine many pages of your own as well as hers have been lost to the winds. I enclose the one he retrieved just yesterday with a heavy heart, questioning my judgment in sending it to you.

The papers tell me that your father was recently under your very roof. I hope it was not too troubling for you. As to your sister, I will see what may be done, if anything. I fear my reach does not extend far beyond these walls. And yourself, as a person presumed dead, are nearly powerless. I will think, here in the darkness. You do so as well, but do it in the sunlight, where you belong.

Falsteed

With trembling fingers, Grace turned to the weather-beaten page, anxious to read the words, yet dreading what they would say.

Fair Lily—

The winter must be hard on you, for I have only had the one letter from you since the first. I write and find my pages gone in the morning, but perhaps the fairies cannot always get to it before the snows do. The winter is not fun. I am inside always and Mother says I am too old for my toys, but when I ask to have my hair put up again she says I’m not old enough yet. I do not know if I am a lady or a child.