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“This is the accessions room,” Rutherford said, inserting the key in the lock.

Emily took an unsteady breath and blinked away the moisture in her eyes.

Aunt Millward reached for her hand and squeezed it. “We shall find him, Emily. I am sure of it.”

The room was almost unrecognizable. Large crates filled what had previously been an open area. Wisps of straw clung to the crates’ wooden slats and lay littered across the floor. Most of the crates’ lids leaned haphazardly against the open boxes. Two of them—the largest and the smallest—lay on top of their respective crates. The tables that had once housed the butterfly collection and piles of literature were now covered in wooden statues, primitive masks, feather capes, headdresses, earthenware bowls, and spears.

Emily navigated the narrow path between the boxes to the table. She spotted the row of carved idols immediately. Five of them, each bearing a different jewel. Picking up the one containing the ruby, she held it out so that Aunt Millward could see. “Henry was here,” she said.

Aunt Millward eyed the piece grimly. “So the all-important question is, Where did he go afterward?”

The sound of voices roused Henry from his stupor. Emily. He’d been thinking of her when he’d lost consciousness again, and now he was hearing her. He forced his eyes open. In his cramped quarters, his eyes were almost the only things he could move without incurring more pain. The narrow beams of light filtering in through the chinks had moved only a little since the last time he’d checked. Perhaps he hadn’t been insensible so long this time.

“Check that side of the room, Emily. Rutherford and I will look over here.”

Henry’s breath caught. Aunt Millward. Surely the words had been too clear to be caused by delirium. Footsteps sounded, coming nearer. Hope fortified by desperation gave his aching limbs strength. He tried calling out but managed nothing more than a soft moan. He swung his knees to the left. They hit the side of the crate. Ignoring the pain, he drew them back and swung again. The thud was muffled by the fabric of his breeches, but he did it a third time.

“Did you hear that?”

It was Emily’s voice.

“Emily!” Henry’s attempt at calling her name had the same pathetic results as crying out had done. His dry tongue could barely formulate the word, and all sound was stolen by the fabric in his mouth.

“It sounds like the visitors in Mr. Townsend’s tour have arrived on this floor.”

That was Rutherford, and he sounded anxious.

“No,” Emily said. “It wasn’t that.”

Light footsteps drew closer. Henry thumped the side of the crate with his knees again and again.

“It’s coming from over here!” Emily cried. “From the big crate.”

More hurried footsteps, this time solid and firm.

“Stand back, Miss Norton. Let me see to the lid.”

Above his head, the wood creaked, and then there was an ear-splitting crack. One of the strips of wood flew clear, letting in a stream of light. Henry blinked, instinctively turning away from the bright sunlight only to moan in pain as the tender spot on the back of his head rubbed against the side of the crate.

“Mr. Buckland!” Rutherford’s shock was mingled with horror, and it appeared to give the porter additional strength. The remainder of the lid flew off in one giant piece and clattered to the ground. “Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll have you out of there in no time.”

“Dear heaven, what did that terrible man do to you, Henry?” Aunt Millward said.

Henry attempted to focus on the faces swimming above him. Peacock feathers swayed in and out of his vision. He turned his head slightly, ignoring the pain in his desperate search for Emily. And then he saw her. Her dark eyes were filled with tears. She leaned over the edge of the box and reached for his face. He closed his eyes, drawing strength from her soft touch.

“Rutherford, see if you can remove the cravat from his mouth without injuring him further,” Aunt Millward said.

Emily disappeared, replaced by Rutherford, who started tugging at the cloth. Henry groaned.

“Gently,” Aunt Millward warned.

The force of Rutherford’s tugging lessened slightly, but he did not give up. “It’s almost there, sir.”

One more pull and Henry felt the fabric loosen. He held perfectly still as Rutherford drew it out of his mouth and away from his face. Carefully, Henry moved his jaw up and down. It did not appear to be broken.

“Here!” Emily said, handing Rutherford a lethal-looking knife. “This dagger was on the table. See if you can use it to cut his bindings.”

“Spare my legs and arms, if you would,” Henry croaked. The words were almost incomprehensible.