RosemarieDust motes danced in the pale afternoon light filtering through the stained glass of the fortress library.Across the long walnut table, Clara was carefully turning the brittle, yellowed leaves of an archival ledger, but my focus was on the small leather-bound book resting in my lap.Dan had pulled it from a false-bottom floorboard in the cellar of the Wilton estate three days ago. The leather was scuffed and cracked at the corners, smelling of dried lavender, cedar, and aged paper. On the inside cover, written in sweeping, elegant cursive that made my throat instantly tighten, was my mother’s name:Violetta Donalds-Wilton. Autumn, 1994.I traced the faded ink with a thumb, my four-month belly resting comfortably against the edge of the desk.“If you are reading this, my sweet Rose,” one of the earliest entries began, “it means I am gone, and the quiet life your father and I built has reached its end. I pray every night to the Moon Goddess that you never have to turn this ke
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