It was an old land survey, dated 1882.

I untied the ribbon and spread the map flat.

“What is that?” Caroline asked, stepping closer, her breath warm against my neck.

“It’s a map of the north ridge,” I said.

My eyes followed the faded ink lines of the boundary markers.

There were small hand-drawn crosses marked along the northern edge, just outside the official family plot.

“The unmarked graves,” I murmured.

“We don’t talk about that,” Caroline said quickly, her hand darting out to cover the map.

“Why not, Caroline?” I asked, pulling her hand away. “Whose names are these?”

Beneath the map was a ledger of a different kind.

It was a registry of names, written in the neat script of my great-grandfather.

Next to each name was a date of death and a brief description of their work on the estate.

“These were the workers,” I said, reading the names aloud. “The people who built the main house, who worked the fields.”

“They were buried there out of respect,” Caroline said, her voice sounding defensive and thin.

“No,” I said, turning the page. “Look at this legal rider.”