The storm had blown itself out, and the morning was bright and clear, if chilly. Mary woke to an unusual sound, that of a fire being laid for her, and she thanked the maid profusely. The maid, unaccustomed to being gushed over so, nodded uncomfortably and directed Mary to some clothes of Lizzie’s that might fit her, then asked if she’d like to dress and join the others for breakfast or if she’d prefer a tray brought up.

Mary said she’d go down and quickly donned quite the prettiest dress she’d ever worn. In the dining room, Mrs. Somerville, Jane, and Peebs were at breakfast, speaking in hushed tones. They stopped when they saw her, and smiled, and rose. Mary felt a flood of relief, as she’d felt somehow that she would be in trouble, and almost burst into tears.

“There, there, Miss Godwin. All’s right with the world, although the newspapers say that there’s another missing patient from the hospital,” Mrs. Somerville said with a wink. “Never mind, we’ll get it all sorted. I will take control of the entire affair. Clearly my faith in the Wollstonecraft Detective Agency was well founded.”

“Clearly,” said a voice from the hall. “It’s as well you didn’t leave things to me, cousin.” Mary turned to see a wan-looking Lizzie being led by the elbow by a grinning Allegra.

“Lizzie!” Mary cried, and rushed to help her to a seat.

“I daresay that dress suits you better than it does me.”

Mary brushed her borrowed gown. “I hope you don’t mind—the maid said it was—”

“Not at all! You must keep it,” said Lizzie. “Allegra told me you would all be here. She told me so many things I could scarcely fathom…I thought it best to come home.”

“Longest carriage ride ever, again,” Allegra chimed in. “I thought we’d be in Wales by now, and my bum’s gone numb.”

Jane gasped, Peebs coughed politely, and Mrs. Somerville clucked a bemused never-mind.

“Mr. Brocklehurst is in custody, so you can rest easy here,” Peebs assured Lizzie.

“What of Sir Caleb?” asked Mary.

“I imagine he’s had a rather uncomfortable night. He and Brocklehurst were at each other’s throats, and the constables thought it safer not to transport them together, so they left him where he was—locked up in the crypt. They should be back for him soon.”

Mary sat down to her bacon and toast at last and found she was ravenous.

They spoke further, and after a second pot of tea, they were alerted by a squeaky stair to the arrival of a shaky but determined Ada, who it turned out was quite as ravenous as Mary, which quieted the worst of Mary’s fears for her health.

And then, in the doorway, appeared a much-restored Alice, looking not ghostlike but perhaps a bit tentative.

Lizzie turned and the two girls stared in wonder, each feeling as if she were seeing her own reflection. Lizzie was too wobbly from her long journey to stand, but she reached out her hand and said simply, “Sister,” and Alice ran into her arms.

“Welcome home, dear sister,” said Lizzie. “At long last.”

All together at last, each girl shared her piece of the story, filling in the gaps of information that remained.

“And what of you, Cousin Alice?” asked Mrs. Somerville. “It is you we know least of. However did you fare, once lost to the family?”

“I did not know I was lost, madam,” replied Alice. “I was raised in a loving home, not so very far from here. My parents—my adoptive parents, as I know now—are both in service in Varens Manor, and it was there I met the estate manager of this house, who was conferring with the Varenses’ manager.”

“Bottlethirst,” said Ada contemptuously.

“Mr. Brocklehurst, yes. He looked at me ever so strangely the first time we met. But then we chanced to meet in town one day, and he was quite the gentleman. He introduced me to his friend Sir Caleb, and all has been a whirl since. A baronet! And he wanted to marry me!” Alice shook her head.

But Mrs. Somerville nodded, understanding.

“And no sooner are we married than they introduced me to Papa. My real father, they say, and it gladdened my heart to know him. But he was suspicious of Sir Caleb, and when I questioned Caleb about it, he shut me up in the hospital.”

“Ghastly,” said Jane, who could not help herself. This time, no one stopped her.

“But I had overheard them talking,” continued Alice. “I heard I had a sister, and that Caleb and Mr. Brocklehurst were going to try again. I could not stand the thought of them doing to another what they had done to me.”

Alice paused from her tale. “I must thank you. Each of you. You have saved me from much wickedness, and I can never repay your kindness.”

Mary took both of her hands. “Kindness is repaid by friendship, Alice.”

“And I thank you as well,” interrupted Lizzie, “for rescuing me from that awful hospital. After I took a chill in the rain like Ada, Mr. Brocklehurst presented me, in my delirium, as their missing patient. And there I would have remained save for the courage of all of you.”

There was a knock on the door, and the butler came to alert Mrs. Somerville—who had taken command of the house at large—that the constabulary had arrived to relieve them of the prisoner. The entire household accompanied the constables along the crunching gravel path to the crypt, where a chilled and miserable Sir Caleb huddled in fear. He gave little resistance as the constables led him to believe that tea or at least a blanket would be waiting in his cell.

The constables tipped hats and muttered formalities to Peebs and Mrs. Somerville, ignoring the girls altogether, and left the lot of them on the scorched stair, which was still draped with Mary’s now-ruined wool cloak.

“I can show you now. Look,” Ada directed Mrs. Somerville. “It’s not a tomb, it’s a book. This book tells a story—a love story. A steganograph hidden in the Roman numerals. Some have these little holes, here, see, and these here, and here, aren’t Roman at all, they’re Greek,” said Ada. “I knew that it must be some sort of code.”

“It is,” said Mary, feeling clever that she’d grasped Ada’s solution. “And it’s a testament too, Alice, of how much your parents loved and missed you. Look up.”

There in the flecked silver ceiling, the Greek letters and larger Roman numerals upside down, spelled the name: A L I C E.

“Marvelous,” said Mrs. Somerville. “Steganography.” The girls held hands tightly.

“Wait,” said Ada. Something itched in her brain. “This can’t be all of it. It’s too easy. I mean, it’s lovely that they lie there, looking up at the name of their lost daughter, but…” She crept farther in the tomb, respectfully avoiding stepping on the graves, and knelt down to each letter in the cipher—first Greek, then Roman, and finally Greek again, her fingers running the channels of the inscription to the finger-poke-sized holes below. Slowly, gently, she found what she was looking for.

Pressing each of the holes rewarded her with a tiny click. When the last Greek sigma had been pressed, a rolling, clicking, sliding, stone-on-stone sound reverberated, and in the far wall, a grey panel slid away to reveal a long, narrow, silver box.

Ada smiled as the others gaped in amazement—at the cleverness of the design and the cleverness of Ada herself. She ventured to the far wall, removed the box, and opened it to reveal a large sheet of parchment, folded upon itself multiple times and sealed with a blob of crimson wax.

The will.