The inner wooden door opened slowly after a moment.

An elderly man with thin white hair and kind, watery blue eyes looked out at me.

He wore a faded flannel shirt and held a ceramic mug of tea.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Are you Arthur Vance?” I asked.

“I am,” he said.

“My name is Clara,” I said. “I am Eleanor’s granddaughter.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he looked closely at my face.

“You have her chin,” he said softly.

He unlatched the screen door and pushed it open.

“Come inside out of the damp, Clara,” he said.

The living room was warm and smelled of woodsmoke and old paper.

Bookshelves lined every wall, packed with local history volumes and leather-bound ledgers.

A large map of Loudoun County from the nineteenth century hung over the brick fireplace.

“I was very sorry to hear about Eleanor,” Arthur said, gesturing toward a plaid armchair.

“Thank you,” I said, sitting down. “She spoke of you often when I was younger.”