“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.

I miss Grace. And Father. He has left again to go talk to people. On his last trip he brought me home a pretty blue hat with velvet ribbons. He said he’ll bring me something even better this time, but I’ll have to do him a special favor to get it. I don’t know what could be prettier than that hat. Father says it matches my eyes.

Write back if you can, as I am bored.

Alice

Grace crushed the letter in her hands, and she coiled into a ball on her bed, allowing the darkness that Falsteed had warned her against to take over.

“We must do something,” Grace said, flinging Alice’s letter to the table in Thornhollow’s office. “I cannot stand by and let her suffer the same fate as I did.”

Thornhollow picked up the letter, scanning it quickly, his expression blank. “I have been following your father’s movements in the papers. His speech schedule is set and it will be a matter of weeks yet before he returns home.”

“And then what?” Grace cried. “What will we do?”

He didn’t meet her gaze, his eyes on the sleet-covered window instead. “Grace . . . I don’t know what we can do. Falsteed said it himself; you’re presumed dead, he’s in an asylum. In my opinion you’ve already put too much on Reed by asking him to run your letters. What would you have him do now? Risk imprisonment by kidnapping your sister?”

“Yes,” Grace said, her face a white sheet. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Ridiculous. As the only living child of a powerful politician there’d be a manhunt. He’d never even get her out of the city. Not to mention it would scare the poor child witless.”

“Better a frightened child than a child no longer,” she said. “And you forgot to number yourself among my allies.”

He tossed his hands in the air, baffled. “What can I do?”

“What can you do?” Grace seethed. “Do you think I don’t see the expensive cut of your clothes, or your sister’s jewels? No one would care if an inconsequential family name stopped dead with a brooding doctor—who happens to drive a very expensive carriage, as well. And women don’t just flock to looks, Doctor. I’ve been in society; I know exactly how important a good marriage—”

“All right!” He held up a hand to stop her. “I didn’t teach you the power of observation just to have it turned back on me. Yes, I have money. What good can that possibly do? Shall I approach your father and ask to buy his youngest daughter?”

“Do not mock me on this subject,” Grace said, eyes burning.

“I am not mocking the severity of the situation,” Thornhollow said. “I’m only trying to illustrate how fully our hands are tied.”

“I refuse to accept that,” Grace yelled.

“Grace,” Thornhollow said, the very calm of his voice sending her over the edge.

She slammed her fist onto Alice’s letter. “Why am I surprised that a man who can’t remember the names of dead women whose cooling bodies he stands over would take no interest in the fate of a little girl he’s never seen? If she were raving mad, one of your precious insane, you’d be the first to her defense. But she’s a perfectly normal girl, so her fate matters little to you!”

Thornhollow’s face was stony, his voice cold when he spoke next. “My interest has always been in the science and the science only, which is why I don’t remember the names of the dead. They simply do not matter to me. Your sister is not one of our victims. Her name is Alice. She is blond, like you, although her hair is naturally curly.”