That night, he dreamt of the staircase again. His aunt’s figure tumbled endlessly, her cry frozen in time. At the bottom, she pointed toward the garden, accusing. Andrew woke, trembling, sweat soaking the sheets. The estate seemed to breathe around him, as though Henry’s secrets infected the very walls.
Dawn brought mist curling low across the garden, dampening Andrew’s boots as he approached the wall. Tools in hand, he hacked through weeds until bare soil emerged. The sundial and oak loomed behind him, silent sentinels. This time, he promised himself, he would dig until the ground surrendered its secret.