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‘Well, they wouldn’t be expecting it,’ Tom said.

‘And we wouldn’t be messing with their records,’ Joan said. ‘Just looking.’

A glass passage connected the conservatory to the house. Joan had thought that they’d need to sneak through it, but other people were moving in and out; the fringes of the party extended beyond the conservatory.

Joan found herself holding her breath as she reached the end of the passage and entered the house itself. Her first thought was that it was intimidating and had been designed to give that impression. They’d entered a long gallery with paintings of Olivers along the walls in gilded frames. Joan spotted one of Edmund with a hunting rifle and a dead deer; the painting beside him was of a blonde woman wearing a silver tiara. Were these all Oliver heads of family? Hand-painted glass cabinets broke up the line of paintings, and there were treasures inside: jewelled ornaments and tiny porcelains.

‘Wouldn’t mind fifteen minutes in here with a sack,’ Ruth murmured.

Jamie’s eyebrows drew together in disapproval. ‘We’re not thieves. Not tonight, at least. Keep moving.’

Ruth sighed, but together they slipped out of the gallery. Ruth led them through a series of passages that became progressively less grand: marble floors shifted to parquetry and then ordinary floorboards and grey carpet. The sounds of the house changed too: from the faint buzz of party conversation to the clatter of kitchen work.

Joan had been tensed for alarms to go off; for someone to catch them. But at the next corridor, Ruth gestured for Joan to shut the door behind her.

Ruth turned the lights on, and they all blinked. ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘The storage corridor at the back of the house.’ It was wide with whitewashed walls, and so far from the rest of the house that the silence was complete. ‘It’s L-shaped with exits at each end,’ Ruth whispered. ‘Two storage rooms off each arm.’

They checked the rooms quickly: one was full of linens and old clothes, neatly folded; the second had old kitchenware; the third room, oddly, wasn’t a storage room but a small bedroom—a servant’s room. The fourth was locked.

‘That’s it?’ Joan said. ‘Just here with the linen closet? I thought monster records were sacred.’

‘They are,’ Ruth said. ‘But even the Olivers are practical about it. And no one would ever actually break into an archive.’

‘Except us, apparently,’ Tom said wryly.

‘All right.’ Joan pointed. ‘I’ll keep watch up this end.’

‘I’ll watch the other end,’ Tom said. He headed around the corner of the L and out of sight.

Joan took her place and listened at the door. It was so quiet that she was reminded of the Monster Court, the palace frozen in time. She could see Ruth and Jamie from this angle. Ruth took two pins from her hair and had the door open within seconds. Crap lock, she mouthed to Joan, as she and Jamie slipped inside.

Joan tried not to fidget while she waited. She strained, listening for footsteps or telltale creaks. She folded her arms and shifted, trying to warm up without making any noise. The corridor was freezing, even on a warm night. The little bedroom opposite must have been ice-cold to sleep in.

Whose bedroom was it? In houses like this, servants’ quarters were usually in the attic. And there wouldn’t have been one bedroom alone. Joan peered inside, trying to puzzle it out. A thin-mattressed bed stood against the wall; the iron frame reminded her of school camps. In the corner, there was a small wardrobe; a latticed window showed a dismal view of a dirty brick wall and a bit of sky. Joan was struck by how mean and punitive the space was. This was a mansion with views of the most beautiful gardens in the country. And yet a worker had been put in here.

Whoever it was, they’d made the best of it. There was a beautiful floor lamp beside the bed: the glass was a deep-sea shade of blue. And the room was ruthlessly tidy: there wasn’t a speck of dust on the floor; not a crease on the white sheets of the bed. The only small sign of disarray was a book on the pillow—The Canterbury Tales—and a half-written letter with old-fashioned handwriting. A pen lay beside the letter.

Joan stared. She knew that handwriting …

She took a step closer, putting her on the cusp of the room—still close enough to the end of the corridor to hear footsteps. There was a mermaid on the letterhead and a typeset name in elegant cursive: Aaron Oliver.

It took her a long moment to understand.

This was Aaron’s bedroom.

But why would he be sleeping here, in this cold place, cut off from the luxury of the rest of the house? Joan had pictured him sleeping in a four-poster bed, amid damask silk and velvet. She’d pictured him with a suite of his own upstairs. But his family had hidden him away here, in this freezing room in the servants’ wing.

She fought the impulse to step across the threshold. She had a terrible urge to read that letter; to open that wardrobe. Tears pricked in her eyes. She wasn’t even sure why, except that she missed him more than she’d ever imagined she would. And she’d never get closer to him than this again, she knew. And she hated that he was in this house, with people who seemed to despise him.

She made herself take a step back. As she moved, a latch in the corridor sounded. She jumped. Aaron, she thought automatically. But no. Ruth and Jamie re-emerged from the records room.

Ruth waved at Joan, looking triumphant, and Jamie jogged over to get Tom.

‘You have it?’ Joan whispered.

Ruth nodded. ‘Date and address!’

They took the same route back out, walking fast. Date and address. Joan glanced down at her gloved arm. She was still mired. If Nick had been taken to another time, Joan wouldn’t be able to go after him. Was there a way to remove the cuff?