The heavy wooden door of the library swung open, and Margaret stood in the frame, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She walked straight to the table, her eyes locked on the fabric in my hands.
“That is far too delicate for everyday use, Eleanor,” Margaret said, reaching out and pulling the runner from my fingers.
“I was just showing her, Margaret,” Garrett said, his crooked smile fading as he stepped back.
“Mother kept this wrapped in acid-free tissue for twenty years,” Margaret said, folding it quickly into a small, tight square. “We are just protective of our father’s legacy, Eleanor.”
She placed the folded linen inside the cabinet and clicked the glass door shut, the key scraping against the lock.
Daniel stood in the doorway behind her, his hands tucked so deep into his pockets that his coat was pulled taut across his shoulders. He looked down at the Persian rug, refusing to meet my eyes.
“We should probably get going,” Daniel mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I have an early meeting at the yard tomorrow.”
