Inside the compartment sat a thick, wax-sealed envelope.

The wax was deep red, stamped with the original Sterling seal.

Miranda’s laughter died in her throat.

She stared at the envelope as if it were a ghost.

“No,” she whispered.

“It cannot be.”

“It is,” I said.

Outside, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The firm tread of Julian’s boots was accompanied by the slow, deliberate tapping of a cane.

The door to the library began to swing wider.

I turned toward the entrance, holding the sapphire tight in one hand and the sealed envelope in the other.

The shadows in the hallway shifted as the door opened.

The heavy oak door swung open, protesting on its brass hinges.

Julian stood in the threshold, his dark coat damp from the Chicago mist outside.

Behind him came Nathaniel Vale, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane.

The old attorney’s eyes were sharp behind his wire-rimmed glasses, fixing immediately on Miranda.

Miranda took a step back, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug.

“Nathaniel,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You are supposed to be in Florida.”