She knew these woods. She passed the ruins of what were once the slave quarters. Sadness lingered there, and Marian hated that this was her family’s legacy. She had spent the better part of her adult life trying to rectify it.

Charlotte stared, and her breath caught. She had never liked the way some photographers left the deceased with eyes wide, gazing eerily into the lens. And she knew Catherine would have wanted it to appear as if she were peacefully sleeping.

A long table stood before her. At its head sat an older woman with iron-gray hair swept into a flattering bun. Her high black collar and silver jewelry gave her the air of a stern queen awaiting her court.

The candle on the table flickered violently, though no wind stirred. A sudden chill slid over her shoulders, and Tabitha looked past her—ears flattened, eyes wide.

A sudden draft snuffed out one of the nearby candles, and Amelia shivered. Then—another sound, closer this time. The hair on her arms stood on end as she spun around. What she saw made her breath hitch.

In an age when doctors treated sorrow with laudanum and despair with rest cures, Charlotte offered a gentler path—mint for consolation, rosemary for remembrance, violets for mourning.

As Declan rounded a bend in the path, he stopped short. A thrill of fear shot through him. Ahead, a woman stood with her back to him, facing the stone wall that overlooked the coast.

Johnathon stood at the end, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Cold seeped through the 100-year old panes of glass. He pulled his gray cardigan closer around his broad frame and gazed out at the English hills bathed in an unforgiving light from the full moon.