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That was true of the room and untrue of its occupant.

By the time Mrs. Reynolds arrived, Elizabeth was dressed and had cleared the books and cushion from the seat. She shut the door after admitting the housekeeper.

“I dreamed again.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at the bare wood. “About this?”

“A book. Somebody hid it here. Or in a place like it. I could see her hands, but I do not know whether I was watching her or—” Elizabeth stopped. “I do not know. I thought I was doing it.”

“Have you found anything?”

“Only a panel which may not open at all.”

She showed the housekeeper where she had pressed.

Mrs. Reynolds bent to examine the join. She ran her finger along the moulding, then looked beneath it.

“This has been fitted separately.”

“Does that mean it opens?”

“It may mean it was mended.”

That was a possibility Elizabeth had not considered. She stood back while Mrs. Reynolds fetched the candle from the dressing table and lit it. Holding it to one side, the housekeeper examined the small shadow beneath the wood.

“There is something behind it. A catch, I think. Hold the candle for me, miss.”

Elizabeth did so. Mrs. Reynolds took a small flat key from her ring and used its end to press gently against the recess. The moulding shifted beneath her other hand.

Both women stopped.

“I have it,” Mrs. Reynolds said quietly. “The wood is stiff. We must not force it.”

Elizabeth set down the candle. While the housekeeper held the catch aside, she took the lower edge of the panel between her fingers and eased it forward. It came reluctantly, releasing a line of dust, then lifted clear.

There was a narrow cavity behind it.

At the back, upon a dry ledge, lay a dark parcel.

Elizabeth could not speak. Mrs. Reynolds took the candle again and lowered it until the light reached the cloth.

“Do not touch it yet.”

Mrs. Reynolds set the candle safely upon the writing desk. She brought a clean towel from the washstand and spread it upon the seat. Then, with both hands, she lifted the parcel from the cavity and laid it down.

The covering had darkened almost to brown. One folded corner crumbled slightly when Mrs. Reynolds lifted it, exposing a lighter fold beneath.

“Oiled linen,” she said. “See how the inner part has kept?”

Elizabeth nodded. She remembered the cloth in the dream, the care with which the ends had been folded. Those folds were beneath her eyes now, made by hands which had ceased their work long before she was born.

Mrs. Reynolds loosened the outer layer, supporting it upon the towel. Inside was a small book, its cover warped and stained along one edge. Several leaves near the end had stuck together. There was no question of opening it as Elizabeth opened a novel.

Yet it was a book.

The housekeeper looked at her, and for a moment neither woman attempted an explanation.

“At the beginning,” Elizabeth said at last. “Can we look only at the beginning?”