She nodded.
They sent a message the following morning.
The reply came several days later.
Lydia Hale had engaged independent counsel.
Steps were being taken to request a fresh assessment of Beatrice's circumstances and challenge the existing restrictions.
No outcome was guaranteed.
But Beatrice was no longer entirely dependent on her husband's version of the truth.
For Eleanor, that mattered enormously.
She began writing to Lydia.
Not long letters.
She didn't want to overwhelm a woman already fighting for her sister.
But she wanted Lydia to know why she had kept the documents.
And how determined she was to help.
The first reply arrived in January.
Lydia thanked her.
Then wrote a sentence Eleanor would remember for years.
For three years I have been told my sister cannot understand her own condition. Yours is the first letter from someone outside our family who has questioned whether we have been told the truth.
Eleanor cried when she read it.
Silas found her at the kitchen table.
She handed him the letter.
He read it.
Then placed one broad hand against her back.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Eleanor whispered, "I used to think I was running away."
Silas looked toward her.
She continued.
"But perhaps I was also trying to find somewhere I could speak without being silenced."
He nodded slowly.
Then said, "Looks like you found it."
She raised her eyes.
He smiled.
"And you've barely stopped speaking since."
Eleanor laughed through tears.
She struck his arm lightly with the folded letter.
Silas laughed.
Then took her hand.
For a moment, the kitchen felt warmer than the fire alone could explain.
On Christmas morning, Silas found Eleanor sitting on the floor beside the small pine tree she'd persuaded Owen and Jonah to bring into the house.
It was uneven.
Several branches were bare.
And the homemade decorations looked nothing like the elaborate glass ornaments Eleanor remembered from Boston.
But she loved it.
She had sewn small cloth stars.
Strung dried fruit.
Made ribbon bows from scraps of material.
And convinced Silas to let her hang a carved wooden horse near the top.
The little tree stood beside the fireplace.
A few wrapped parcels rested beneath it.
When Silas entered, Eleanor looked up.
"Merry Christmas."
He stopped.
For a moment, he stared.
Then smiled.
"Merry Christmas."
She looked toward the tree.
"Do you like it?"
Silas studied the decorations.
A tiny red ribbon moved in the draft from the window.
The dried fruit caught the firelight.
And a crooked paper star leaned toward one side.
He smiled.
"Best tree this house has ever had."