“She died in exile because your father-in-law stole her birthright,” I said, my voice steady.

The wind from Lake Michigan rattled the tall glass panes of the library windows.

Julian took a step toward me, his brow furrowed as he stared at the sapphire.

“Clara Sterling,” Julian murmured, trying out the name.

“The sister who supposedly died of influenza in the twenties.”

“She didn’t die of influenza, Julian,” I said.

“She lived, she married a man named Elias Cross, and she had a son.”

I looked directly into Miranda’s pale, panicked eyes.

“My father.”

Miranda let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

“This is absurd,” she said, her voice rising. “You are a maid.”

“You scrub our floors and wash our linen.”

“You are a grifter trying to squeeze money out of a family.”

“I have the bloodline, Miranda,” I said, holding the sapphire higher.

“And I have the papers to prove it.”

Julian looked between us, his face pale in the dim lamplight.

“Mother, is this true?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Did Grandfather have a sister who survived?”