It was late afternoon by the time they reached Liskeard. They left the carriages at the posting inn and walked to the house little Charley Prowse had been taken to twenty-five years ago.

“That’s it,” Georgiana said, pointing.

Alexander halted on the flagway and stared across the street, seeing a sizable two-storied house behind an iron fence. Whoever had built it had been wealthy but whoever owned it now wasn’t. The gutters sagged and there were quite a few slates missing from the roof.

The house looked grim, with its gray stone walls and narrow windows and pointed gables. It also looked empty. All the windows except two were tightly shuttered.

“Does anyone live there?”

Georgiana’s eyes unfocused slightly. “There are two people in the parlor.”

Alexander stared at the house, trying—and failing—to recognize it.

No one moved. After a moment he realized that Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple were waiting for him.

Alexander took a deep breath, crossed the road, and opened the gate. The hinges screeched. He walked up the path. Weeds grew between the flagstones. At the door, he hesitated. The emotion that he felt was reluctance, not curiosity. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what had happened to him in this grim, gray house.

Neither Georgiana nor her father said anything. They waited silently for him to make up his mind: knock or turn away.

He was very tempted to turn away.

Alexander blew out his breath, lifted the knocker, and rapped loudly. The sound echoed inside the house. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He heard shuffling footsteps. Someone drew the bolts back and opened the door.

It was a man, small and stooped and elderly. Alexander looked at him uncertainly. Was he a servant?

“Yes?” the old man said, peering up at them, the entrance hall dark and cavernous behind him.

“A woman lived here,” Alexander said. “Twenty-five years ago. She had relatives in Lansallos, and when they died she brought their son to live here.” He paused, feeling the reluctance again. “Do you know who she was?”

The old man took a step closer and stared up at Alexander’s eyes.

Alexander stared back. He saw the man’s disbelief, saw his dawning recognition.

“Charley?” the old man said. “Is it you?” He reached out and touched Alexander’s sleeve, as if he didn’t believe he was real.

“I’m Charley,” Alexander said. “Who are you?”

“Dowrey. John Dowrey.” The old man turned and called back into the house, “It’s Charley, Mariah.” He clutched at Alexander’s sleeve, pulling him inside. “Mariah! It’s Charley! He’s come back!”

* * *

Mariah was the old man’s wife. She burst into tears when she saw Alexander and embraced him, sobbing into his silk waistcoat. He hugged her back awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

The old couple fussed over them, Mr. Dowrey finding seats for Georgiana and her father in the sparsely furnished parlor, Mrs. Dowrey dabbing at her face with a threadbare handkerchief, apologizing for having no refreshments to offer. Alexander perched on the sofa and looked around. He saw signs of poverty everywhere. The upholstery was frayed and the carpet worn through. There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls. The few candles were tallow, their mutton-smell lingering even though they were unlit.

Mrs. Dowrey sat alongside Alexander on the sofa, clutching his hand, squeezing it repeatedly as if reassuring herself that he was really there.

“Was it you who brought me here?” Alexander asked her.

“That was Eliza Menhennick. This was her house until she passed away.” Mrs. Dowrey clutched his hand more tightly and said, “Where have you been, Charley? We thought you must be dead.”

“I was adopted by a gentleman. He found me in Exeter.”

“Exeter? However did you get there?”

“I don’t know,” Alexander said. “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t remember this house or Mrs. Menhennick or anything that happened.”

“Miss Menhennick,” the old lady said. “Eliza never married. She lived in this house her whole life. First with her father, and then by herself.”

“Poor Eliza was quite a recluse,” Mr. Dowrey said. “Until she brought you home. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was those months. She loved you as if you were her own son.”

The words made Alexander’s throat tighten. He cleared it. “Was she my great-aunt?”

Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza’s mother and your father’s grandmother were sisters. She was your . . .” He looked to his wife. “Cousin twice removed?”

Mrs. Dowrey nodded.

“And you?” Alexander asked. “Are we related?”

“By marriage,” Dowrey said. “My mother was a Menhennick.”

Alexander digested this information, and then said, “How long was I here? Do you know?”

The Dowreys looked at each other again. “It was spring when she brought you home,” the old man said. “And winter when she died. December fifth, wasn’t it?”

Mrs. Dowrey nodded.

Six months. He’d lived here for six months. Alexander ran his gaze around the parlor again, trying to see something he recognized, and failed. He looked back at the Dowreys. “If you don’t know how I got to Exeter, can you please tell me what you do know?”

“Precious little,” Mr. Dowrey said. “We were in Plymouth when Eliza died, and by the time we got here she’d been buried. Her abigail was gone and so were you.”

Alexander lifted his eyebrows. “Her abigail took me?”

“Took everything she could lay her hands on. Although no one knows how much that was. Eliza was quite eccentric, poor thing. She used to say she had a fortune hidden in the walls.”

“A fortune?”

Dowrey shrugged. “Maybe she had one, maybe she didn’t. Old Menhennick was wealthy, no denying that, and everything he owned went to Eliza, but how much that was is anyone’s guess. Eliza was sparing with her money. Never went out, hardly spent a groat. Until you came.” He smiled at Alexander. “You brought her back to life, you did, and we were glad to see it. Did her a world of good to have a child in the house.”

“Such a beautiful little boy you were,” Mrs. Dowrey said, squeezing his hand again. “And look how handsome you are now.”

Alexander felt himself blush faintly. “What do you know about the abigail?”

“Her name was Polglaze,” Dowrey said. “She was new. Only been in Eliza’s service a couple of months.”

“Eliza didn’t trust her,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “She was certain Polglaze had been going through her jewelry box. She was going to dismiss her. That’s what she told us the last time we saw her.” Her frail fingers tightened on his hand again. “The last time we saw you.”

“We were so worried about you, Charley,” the old man said, leaning forward in his chair. “We had nightmares thinking what might have happened to you.”

Alexander didn’t tell the Dowreys that he’d been sold to a chimney sweep; instead he said, “I had the best home a person could wish for. Truly.”

“Such a wee thing you were the last time we saw you, and just look at you now, all grown up.” Mrs. Dowrey’s hand strayed to his cuff, touching the expensive fabric. “You look exactly what Eliza wanted you to be: a gentleman.”

“Yes,” Alexander said awkwardly, aware that his cuff had probably cost more than all of Mrs. Dowrey’s clothing put together. He glanced at Georgiana. Where is Miss Menhennick’s fortune? he wanted to ask.

Georgiana met his eyes, and perhaps she read his question on his face, for she said, “It’s possible there is a hiding place in the walls,” and in that moment Alexander knew that Eliza Menhennick’s fortune was somewhere in the house.

Georgiana looked at her father. “Don’t you think, Papa?”

Lord Dalrymple recognized his rôle. “Yes,” he said. “Old houses like this often have hidey holes.”

“Father’s very good at finding them,” Georgiana told the Dowreys. “He found a smugglers’ tunnel only three days ago. I think we should look, don’t you?”

“Yes,” both Dalrymple and Alexander said.

“Look?” Mr. Dowrey glanced at the parlor walls, his expression bewildered. “But . . . where?”

Alexander looked at Georgiana. She was staring at him intently, clearly trying to tell him something. He stared back, trying to decipher her message, and then realized that her hands were moving on her lap. He glanced down, saw her palms press together and then apart, as if she was opening a book.

“The library,” he said. “Does this house have one?”

“Well, yes,” Dowrey said. “But . . . but surely we’d have noticed . . .”

Alexander stood. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

* * *

The library was a large room, and it was completely empty. No books, no furniture, not even a carpet on the floor. The shutters were closed, the air cold and stale.

Mr. Dowrey murmured something disjointed and ashamed, and went to open the shutters.

“Poor John lost all his money in ninety-one,” Mrs. Dowrey said, her gnarled fingers twisting together. “That’s why we came here. We didn’t think you’d mind, Charley.”

“Mind?” Alexander said. “Why should I mind?”

“Because this house is yours. Eliza left it to you.”

“To me?” Alexander looked around the library, seeing the tall windows, the empty shelves, the wainscoting. He imagined the Dowreys selling off the books one by one, using the money to buy food, coal, tallow candles.

“The books . . .” The old lady plucked at his sleeve.

He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were anxious, pleading for his understanding.

“I don’t mind that you sold them,” Alexander told her. “Truly, I don’t.” He placed his hand over Mrs. Dowrey’s and smiled at her. “Come, let’s look for this hiding place.” He stepped into the library and studied the two long walls of empty shelves. Where to start? He glanced at Georgiana.

“I hope it’s like Cornwall,” she said. “And that we find something.”

Like Cornwall. He nodded to show that he understood: her father was to mirror her.

“I think I’ll start here,” Georgiana announced, and crossed to the right-hand wall. Which meant that the hiding place was in the left-hand wall. “Do you think it will be behind the wainscoting or the shelves, Papa?”

Lord Dalrymple frowned at the shelves, and then at the wainscoting.

“The shelves, don’t you think?” Georgiana said in a bright, girlish tone that Alexander had never heard her use before.

“Definitely the wainscoting,” Dalrymple said. He gestured Alexander to the left-hand wall.

He’s letting me find it.

Alexander’s heartbeat picked up speed slightly. He positioned himself opposite Georgiana and tried to copy what she was doing, to keep pace with her. The wainscoting was intricate, with small, square panels over beadwork. Alexander pushed at each seam, each panel. How long would it take? There must be hundreds of—

“Oh, pish pash,” Georgiana said. “A splinter.”

Alexander raised his head. Really? So soon?

He glanced at Georgiana, lifting his eyebrows, certain he must be wrong, but she gave a tiny, imperative nod.

“Huh,” Alexander said, under his breath. He turned back and studied the wainscoting. It’s right here in front of me. He pressed everything within reach—the railings, the beadwork, the panels—probing hard with his fingers, pushing . . . and one of the vertical casings gave slightly. He felt a leap of excitement in his chest, and pushed harder.

A section of the wainscoting three foot square pivoted inward, revealing a pitch-black hole.

Alexander recoiled back two steps. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to find his voice. “I’ve found it.”

Someone gave his shoulder a reassuring touch. Lord Dalrymple. “So you have. Well done.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Mrs. Dowrey said, clutching her hands together at her breast.

Lord Dalrymple dropped to a crouch and peered into the hole. “It’s not that deep,” he said. “In fact, I think . . .” He crawled forward, vanishing into the darkness.

Alexander shuddered and looked away.

Georgiana’s hand slipped into his, warm and comforting. Alexander gripped it tightly and managed to smile down at her.

After an endless thirty seconds, Dalrymple emerged from the hole. “I think it extends the length of the library,” he said, standing, dusting off his knees. “It’s narrow, but high. As high as this ceiling, at a guess.”

“I’ll fetch some candles,” Mr. Dowrey said, and hurried from the room.

“To think that Eliza was telling the truth!” Mrs. Dowrey said, her thin face flushed with excitement. “All this time, I never believed it.” She stepped closer to the hole, bent awkwardly, and peered into the darkness. “Oh, how I wish I were younger!” She tried to kneel.

Dalrymple took her arm, helping her.

Mrs. Dowrey peeked into the hole. “Oh, my stars! How dark it is.” Her face, when she looked back at Alexander, was alight with excitement.

Alexander smiled at her, stretching his lips, showing his teeth, trying to mirror her excitement, when all he felt was nausea. “How wide would you say it is?” he asked Dalrymple.

“Maybe three feet.”

Alexander closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck. Three feet was narrow. Almost as narrow as a chimney.

Dalrymple helped Mrs. Dowrey to her feet again.

“I wonder if there’s anything belonging to your parents in there?” Georgiana said.

Alexander glanced at her. Her expression told him that she didn’t wonder; she knew.

He looked back at the hole. His body gave an involuntary shudder. I can’t.

Mr. Dowrey returned, out of breath, three candles and a tinderbox clutched to his chest. He was as excited as his wife. His hands shook when he tried to light the candles.

Dalrymple took over, striking the tinder, lighting the candles. Alexander was grateful for the viscount’s calmness, his competence. It was good that someone was calm here, because he certainly wasn’t.

The viscount took one of the candles and ventured into the hole alone—to check it was safe, he said. He reappeared a minute later without the candle.

“What’s in there?” Georgiana asked eagerly.

“Nothing at this end,” Dalrymple said, on hands and knees, peering out of the hole. “But there are shelves at the far end with a great many things on them. Possibly Miss Menhennick’s fortune. Pass me those last two candles, will you?” He disappeared again.

Mrs. Dowrey was as animated as a young girl, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “To think that we should find it after all these years!”

Dalrymple returned without the candles. “Who wants to come and see? Mrs. Dowrey?”

“Oh, yes,” the old lady said eagerly. “Come, John!”

Alexander helped them both to their knees and watched them vanish into the hole with Lord Dalrymple. His stomach was tight, his chest tight, his throat tight. God, how could he be so frightened when the Dowreys—frail and elderly—had no fear crawling into that dark space?

“Vic . . .” Georgiana came to stand in front of him. She took his hands and held them in both of hers, his palms pressed together as if he was praying. “It’s all right that you don’t like the dark.”

He shook his head.

“No one thinks any less of you. I don’t. Father doesn’t.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away from her.

“And if you think less of yourself, then you’re a fool!”

Of course he thought less of himself. How could he not?

“Vic, you idiot,” Georgiana said softly. “You saved someone’s life this morning. Or have you forgotten?”

Memory took a moment to come. That cliff seemed a world away and a lifetime ago. Alexander opened his eyes and reluctantly looked back at Georgiana.

She clasped his hands more tightly between hers and stepped closer so that his fingertips touched her collarbone. “I love you, Vic.”

Alexander sighed, and felt some of his tension ease. “I love you, too.”

Georgiana smiled up at him. She released his hands and reached up, pulling his head down, kissing him gently, her lips warm and soft and reassuring, and then stepped back. “There are some things of your parents in there. I’ll bring them out for you. Wait here.”

He stood, frozen, as she crouched. A flash of her smile, a whisper of muslin, and she was gone, swallowed up by darkness.

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, turned his head away . . . turned it back, and reluctantly opened his eyes again. He stared at the hole. Small. Dark. He felt the familiar terror clenching in his belly, clenching in his throat, and listened to the loud, fast beating of his heart.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He forced himself to take a step forward, two steps, three, until he was close enough to the wall to touch it.

The hole in the wainscoting gaped at his feet. Faintly, he heard voices. Excited, happy, unafraid voices. Why can’t I do this?

He knelt as stiffly as old Mr. Dowrey had done, counted to ten, and then stuck his head into the hole.

It was dark. Very dark. Very dark and very small.

He wanted to rear back and scramble away on hands and knees; he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay where he was. “Look, John! Eliza’s jewelry box,” he heard Mrs. Dowrey exclaim. “It wasn’t stolen.”

His eyes were telling him that it wasn’t quite as dark as he’d first thought. Daylight leaked in around him. Candlelight flickered to his right.

“She must have hidden it from Polglaze,” old Mr. Dowrey said.

His ears told him that the space extended high above him and that it was narrow, not much wider than a chimney.

Alexander inhaled a shallow breath, and another one, waiting for his courage. It didn’t come.

I can do this, he told himself, and he crawled into the hole and climbed to his feet, clumsy and hasty, panic leaping in his chest.

There was a moment when he knew he was in a chimney, blind and trapped and suffocating to death. He felt bricks pressing close all around him, tasted soot on his tongue—and then he heard Mr. Dowrey say, “Open it, Mariah. See what’s inside.”

Alexander braced his hands against the walls on either side of him. He fastened on the old man’s voice, clinging to it with all his concentration, his breath wheezing in his throat. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.

“Oh!” Mrs. Dowrey said. “Her amethysts!”

The taste of soot faded. It became a little easier to breathe.

Yes, it was narrow, yes, it was dark, but there were candlelight and people. He heard Georgiana say, “What a pretty necklace. How lucky she hid it,” and then the low murmur of Lord Dalrymple’s voice, his words too quietly spoken for Alexander to catch.

He fixed his gaze on the pale blur of Georgiana’s muslin gown, inhaled a shallow breath, and took hold of his courage. I can do this. One step. A second step. As slow and shuffling as old Mr. Dowrey, sweating and trembling, his breath coming fast and shallow, his hands braced on the walls on either side of him. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.

The Dalrymples and the Dowreys were clustered together, their heads bent over an object he couldn’t see.

“Her mother’s pearls,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “See, John?”

Georgiana looked up. He saw her shock. “Vic!” She came to him swiftly and slid her arms around his waist. “What are you doing in here?”

Alexander let go of the walls and hugged her close, trying not to squeeze too tightly. “I want to see,” he said. He was still trembling, and he knew she must be able to feel it, but it was much easier to breathe now that he was holding her. The walls seemed to push back slightly, the candles to burn a little more brightly. He looked around and saw that the space wasn’t like a chimney at all, or even a tunnel. In fact, it was more like a pantry. A very long, narrow, dark pantry. Shelves lined the walls at this end, crowded with objects. He saw a cluster of tarnished silver candlesticks and row upon row of small stoneware pitchers with pewter lids.

The Dowreys were going through a jewelry box, murmuring excitedly. “Her rings,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “Do you remember this one, John?”

He looked past the Dowreys and found Lord Dalrymple watching him. Dalrymple didn’t appear to mind that Alexander was hugging his daughter; he smiled at him.

Alexander managed to smile back.

“Come, I want to show you something,” Georgiana said. She slipped from his embrace and took his hand. “Over here. On this shelf.”

The shelf she led him to held only three items, each wrapped in cloth. Two were very small, one a little larger.

Georgie picked up the smallest object and unwrapped it. A pocket watch. “Your father’s,” she said, holding it out to him.

Alexander hesitated. Not because he was reluctant to touch the watch, but because it felt momentous. His father’s watch. Something Joseph Prowse had owned, had used, had carried in his pocket.

Carefully, he took the watch. Carefully, he turned it over in his hands, learning its weight, its cool smoothness. My father’s.

The watch was small and plain, the brass case tarnished with age. There was nothing inscribed on the case, nothing inside the lid when he opened it. The face was quite simple, white with black numerals. The hands had stopped pointing at nine thirty.

The last person to wind this was my father.

Alexander’s throat tightened and his eyes stung and for a dreadful moment he thought he might cry. And then the moment passed. He inhaled a deep breath and closed the case and held the watch in his hand, feeling the metal become warm. He didn’t want to put it down. After a moment he removed his own watch from its pocket—embossed silver, with a blue-and-gold enamel face—and carefully placed Joe Prowse’s brass one there instead.

When he looked up, he realized that Lord Dalrymple had joined them and was watching silently.

“Will you keep this for me, please?”

Dalrymple took the embossed silver watch and placed it in his own pocket.

Alexander looked back at Georgiana. Her eyes were on his face, watchful, faintly anxious, as if she knew he’d come close to crying.

He smiled at her, a little lopsided, but still a smile.

She smiled back, and held out her hand. In her palm lay a coiled necklace. Not amethysts or pearls, but coral. “Your mother’s.”

Alexander reached out and took the necklace. It weighed almost nothing in his hand, beads of pink coral strung together on a thread, inexpensive and pretty. Something a young farmer would buy for a wife he loved.

His eyes stung again. He held the necklace and felt regret that Joe and Martha hadn’t had the chance to grow old together. Regret that he couldn’t remember them. The stinging in his eyes became stronger. He blinked several times, swallowed twice, and looked at Georgiana.

She was a viscount’s daughter, born to wear diamonds, not pink coral, but he held the necklace out to her. “Georgie?”

She smiled at him—the sweet smile he loved so much—and stepped closer. Alexander fastened the necklace carefully. When he’d finished, he realized that he was no longer shaking. His hands were quite steady.

Georgiana touched the coral beads with her fingertips and looked at him, and Alexander knew that his mother had gazed at his father in just such a way—her heart in her eyes—when he’d given her the necklace.

If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her; with Lord Dalrymple standing alongside and the Dowreys murmuring over the jewelry box, all he did was take her hand.

Georgiana squeezed his fingers gently. “There’s one more thing that belonged to your parents.”

Alexander’s gaze went to the shelf.

The final object was flat and rectangular. It looked as if it might be a small painting. Georgiana unwrapped it and handed it to him.

It wasn’t a painting; it was a framed sketch, the sort of thing one could get at any fair: pen and ink with a few dabs of watercolor. An hour’s work for the artist, a shilling in payment.

For a few seconds candlelight played across the glass and he couldn’t make out the sketch, and then he tilted the frame—and found himself unable to breathe.

After a long moment, he managed to inhale. He looked at Georgiana. “Is it . . . ?”

“Your mother and father,” she said. “Your sister. And you.”

Alexander looked back at the sketch, devouring it with his eyes. He couldn’t see every detail—the reflected candlelight made it impossible—but he could see enough, could see his mother sitting, dimples peeking in her cheeks and a baby swaddled in a shawl in her arms, and see his father standing alongside her—tall and broad-shouldered, a wide smile on his face. And he could see himself, standing in front of his father.

His hands were shaking again, not from fear but from emotion. There were tears on his face.

The artist had added touches of color: blue for Martha’s skirt, brown for Joseph’s breeches and vest, pink for the beads around Martha’s neck. Alexander stared at that tiny streak of pink. His mother was wearing the coral necklace he’d just given Georgiana. That knowledge gave him a strange feeling in his chest, as if his heart was swelling with both sadness and joy.

Alexander studied his father, seeing his own square chin and straight eyebrows, his own broad shoulders. He tried to see the color of Joe Prowse’s eyes, but the light was too dim.

Then he looked at himself, little Charley Prowse.

Charley Prowse had Martha’s dimples and Joe’s wide smile. He looked happy, so happy, his father’s hands resting on his shoulders.

The strange feeling in Alexander’s chest grew stronger—happiness and pain. The tears came faster, hot and stinging in his eyes, warm on his cheeks. He fumbled for his handkerchief, wiped his face, blew his nose. When he’d finished that, he realized that not only were Georgiana and her father silently watching him, so were the Dowreys.

“Is this a good likeness of my parents?” He held the sketch out to them.

The Dowreys peered closely. “We never met them,” Mr. Dowrey said. “But that’s the spitting image of you as a child, so I’d say yes.”

Alexander looked at the sketch again. He wanted to take it outside and see it in daylight, wanted to examine it with a magnifying glass. He forced himself to look back at the Dowreys. “You found Miss Menhennick’s jewelry?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dowrey said, beaming at him. “And most of the silver. She must have hidden it from Polglaze.”

Alexander’s gaze skipped over the shelves, noting the tarnished trinket boxes and vinaigrettes and salt cellars tucked among the stoneware pitchers. A cluster of candlesticks was piled haphazardly on top of a case that looked as if it probably held a cutlery service.

“And her fortune?”

Mr. Dowrey shook his head.

“You might wish to examine the pitchers,” Lord Dalrymple said. His voice was mild, but it held a note that made Alexander look swiftly at him. So did Georgiana.

Mr. Dowrey, unfamiliar with Lord Dalrymple, didn’t hear it. He looked at the ranks of pitchers dubiously. “They’re just stoneware and pewter.”

Dalrymple eased past the Dowreys in the narrow space and lifted one of the lids with a finger. “Stoneware, pewter . . . and guineas.”

Someone gasped. Everyone stepped closer. The golden coins glinted in the candlelight.

Mrs. Dowrey put her hand to her throat. “Dear Lord in heaven . . .”

“Are all of them filled with guineas?” Georgiana asked, her voice hushed with awe.

“I don’t know,” her father said. “I’ve only looked inside half a dozen, but all of those . . . yes.”

Mrs. Dowrey turned to Alexander. “Oh, my dear boy.” She clutched his arm excitedly. “You have a fortune!”

Alexander smiled down at her. “No, Mrs. Dowrey, you have a fortune.”

Mrs. Dowrey went pale. She released his arm and exchanged a glance with her husband.

Mr. Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza wanted you to have everything.”

“The only things I want are my father’s watch and my mother’s necklace and this.” He tilted the sketch, letting the candlelight gleam across the glass. “I’m giving everything else to you.”

“But . . .” Mr. Dowrey moistened his lips and wrung his hands together. “But why?”

There were several answers he could give. Because I don’t need the money. Because you’re poor. Because you worried about me for twenty-five years. Because your wife cried when I came back. “Because you’re family,” Alexander said.