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“My ankle.” Viola’s blue wool cloak hung loose from her shoulders, exposing the white lawn of her nightgown, its hem muddied. “I twisted it when the tree fell. And the gun went off.”

Cordelia lifted the muddy white hem and found Viola’s booted foot wedged in a crook between a branch and the main trunk.

“What were you doing in the tree?” Henry demanded.

“I climbed it, naturally,” said Viola.

“Why?” asked Henry.

“I had a plan,” said Viola, not meeting her brother’s gaze.

“What sort of plan is climbing a dead ash tree? Something daft, no doubt.”

“Don’t answer that, Viola.” Cordelia untied Viola’s bootlaces. Viola’s plan seemed obvious. From the tree’s position near the wall and Viola’s white gown, Cordelia concluded that Viola had climbed the ash to get over the wall and haunt the castle.

“Bend your knee, Viola. Can you slip your foot out of the boot?” Cordelia lifted the leather tongue, and Viola gingerly pulled her foot free. “Better?” Cordelia asked.

Viola nodded.

“Let’s see if we can get you down from there. Henry, can you help?”

“Wait. Let me check on the gun first. Viola’s tree must have tripped the wire.”

Henry took his lantern and circled the fallen ash. Cordelia worked to free Viola’s cloak where the branches snagged it. Freed, Viola sat up and pulled the cloak around her while Cordelia looked for a stick with which to pry loose the wedged boot.

“Aha!” Henry cried from behind the downed tree. “Here’s the wire.” He reappeared on a ladder propped against a nearby oak. By the light of his lantern, Cordelia could see the old sailor’s blunderbuss pointing skyward, where the base of the stout trunk split into two branches. Relief weakened her knees momentarily. They had been lucky that Viola had not been shot.

Men’s voices sounded, and lights came toward them through the wood. “Viola, can you get down?” Cordelia urged.

“Can you catch me if I jump?” Viola asked.

Cordelia glanced at Henry. He was up his ladder, making some adjustment to the gun’s position. “Just slide down, can you?”

As Viola scooted sideways toward the lower end of the tree trunk, the light of an approaching lantern caught her in its beams. Hector charged the newcomers, barking. They halted.

“Down,” Cordelia ordered. Hector dropped. “Come, boy.” The dog returned to her side.

“Ah, Miss Viola Staveley.” The voice was smooth and deep, and utterly annoying. Cordelia knew it at once. Graymont. He moved the lantern, and Cordelia stared into its beam. “Miss Staveley.”

“My lord, good evening,” Cordelia said.

“Out for a walk in your woods?” Graymont lowered the lantern, revealing him and Winter, his companion.

“As you see,” Cordelia said. “We have been inspecting storm damage. A tree fell.”

“Did it? And the gunshot?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s what alerted us,” Cordelia replied. “My brother keeps an old blunderbuss as an alarm gun. The falling tree must have triggered it.”

Graymont moved his lantern to throw its light along the arch of the downed ash. The beam stopped where Viola’s shoe sat lodged in its notch. “No one took any hurt?” he asked.

“No one. We’re all good here. My brother Henry is making sure of the gun’s placement. I’m sorry if we disturbed your peace. Henry should have warned you …”

Graymont reached for Winter’s lantern. “Winter, help the girl down, please.”

Winter handed Graymont his lantern, and stepped up to the fallen tree. “Come, miss,” he said. Viola placed her hands on Winter’s shoulders. He took her waist and lowered her to the ground. She stood on one foot, clinging to the fallen tree, her white hem in the leaf litter.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Winter.” Cordelia moved to stand next to Viola. It was necessary to get the gentlemen to leave. “Now that we have everything in hand here, please do return to …”