Rose found the journals in July.
Not my journals, the ones in the library drawer that she knew about and had been told were mine to share when I was ready. Something older. Something that had been in the estate longer than we had.
She found them in the attic.
The attic was not a place anyone went regularly. It was accessed through a door in the east wing corridor that required a key kept on the household ring, and its contents were the accumulated material of several generations of Hargroves, the things too significant to discard and too peripheral to display, the objects that lived in the middle distance of family history.
Rose had been granted access to the attic in June as part of a project she had described to Damien as research, which he had approved with the same seriousness he b
