She approached the wall.
The carving was old.
Weathered by moisture.
But unmistakable.
She lifted the pendant beside it.
Same proportions.
Same unusual split in the lower petal.
Her heart began pounding.
Silas Boone had said nothing about her mother.
Nothing about knowing the pendant.
Nothing about why he owned a shirt large enough to fit her.
Clara climbed from the water.
She dried herself roughly and pulled on the huge flannel shirt.
It reached almost to mid-thigh but was still far shorter than something she would willingly wear before a stranger. She wrapped a wool blanket around her lower body.
Then she opened the trapdoor.
“Mr. Boone?”
No answer.
She climbed up.
The storm continued.
Clara waited.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Finally the door opened.
Silas stepped inside covered in snow.
He froze when he saw her beside the open hatch.
Clara held the pendant.
“What is this?”
Silas did not pretend ignorance.
That frightened her more.
He removed his gloves slowly.
“Where did you see it?”
“On the stone.”
He closed the door.
Clara’s voice sharpened.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“About my pendant?”
“Yes.”
“About my mother?”
“Yes.”
Silas looked toward the open spring.
Then at Clara.
Her hair hung damp around her broad face. The oversized flannel stretched across her large body. One hand held the wool blanket closed. The other clutched the pendant.
She looked furious.
Good.
Anger meant she was warmer.
Clara demanded:
“How?”
Silas walked toward the fire but stopped several feet away.
“My father worked for your mother.”
Clara stared.
“My mother lived in Baltimore.”
“No.”
Silas’s answer came quietly.
“She died in Baltimore.”
“That isn't where she lived her whole life.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother was born in Colorado.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“She came here again when she was twenty-seven.”
“No.”
Silas did not argue louder.
He simply waited.
That made Clara angrier.
“My mother was Eleanor Whitfield.”
“Yes.”
“Daughter of a physician.”
“Born in Maryland.”
“That is what she told your father.”
Clara recoiled.
“You knew my father too?”
“No.”
“I knew what she feared about him.”
The room became very still.
Clara shook her head.
“You’re lying.”
Silas reached toward a cabinet.
Clara immediately lifted the hatchet from beside the hearth.
Silas stopped.
His eyes moved to it.
“Good.”
“Do not praise me.”
“I wasn't.”
“What is in that cabinet?”
“Proof.”
“Open it slowly.”
He did.
Inside was a small iron box.
Silas lifted it.
Placed it on the table.
He did not move closer.
“You open it.”
Clara approached cautiously.
The box had no lock.
Inside were folded papers wrapped in oilcloth.
A faded photograph.