Her white hair was wild and uncombed, sticking out in wisps around her pale face.

She was staring down into the darkness of the cellar stairs with wide, milky eyes.

“Eleanor,” I said softly.

She gasped, jumping backward into a shelf of canned peaches.

The cans rattled, the metal clinking together in the small space.

“It’s me,” I said, stepping up into the pantry and closing the cellar door behind me. “It’s Clara.”

She stared at me, her chest heaving under the thin cotton of her gown.

For a second, there was no recognition in her eyes, only a deep, primal terror.

Then, she blinked, and her shoulders sagged.

“The girl,” she whispered. “Nathan’s girl.”

“Yes,” I said, taking her gently by the elbow. “Let’s get you back to bed, Eleanor. It’s freezing out here.”

She didn’t move.

Her eyes drifted down to my waist, where the hard corners of the leather ledger pressed against my skin.

“You found it,” she said.

Her voice was suddenly flat, devoid of the confusion that usually clouded her words.