Chapter 31: Old Photographs

Beatrice Whitmore did not ask permission before leading Lillian through the west wing of the foundation archives.

She walked slowly, cane tapping once against the marble floor. Not for balance. For rhythm. The halls were quiet in a way that felt intentional. Sound softened here. Even footsteps learned restraint.

“These rooms are rarely opened,” Beatrice said lightly. “History does not like to be disturbed.”

Lillian clasped her hands in front of her, careful not to touch anything. “Then I should not be here.”

Beatrice smiled, small and knowing. “You are precisely why they are being opened.”

The archive room smelled faintly of old paper and lavender oil. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, each labeled with careful script. Family records. Civic donations. Photographs catalogued by year rather than sentiment.

Beatrice moved with purpose now, as if the room itself responded to her presence. She stopped at a long table and gestured for Lillian to sit.

“Tea,” she said. It was not a question