Margaret found her in the townhouse's small morning room two days later, a space Wren had claimed for herself over the past weeks precisely because nobody else in the house seemed to use it — north-facing, unfashionable, furnished with a writing desk too plain to photograph well, which made it, by the family's own aesthetic logic, invisible. She was there with her phone and a legal pad, trying to sketch out, in her own private shorthand, everything she'd learned from the letters and the newspaper clipping, when Margaret's voice from the doorway made her close the notebook faster than she meant to.
"You've taken to that room," Margaret said, coming in without waiting to be invited, the way she did everything in this house. "Isabella never once sat in here. Said the light was depressing." S
