“Who is your mother?” he said.
The girl looked at the portrait.
“His daughter,” she said.
“He didn’t have a daughter,” William said.
“He had sons.”
“He had one daughter,” the girl said.
“Before he had sons.”
“She was never acknowledged.”
“Because her mother was not his wife.”
The room was very still.
“He acknowledged her privately,” the girl said.
“He gave her the seal.”
“He told her — if anything ever happens.”
“If they try to take what is yours.”
“Show them this.”
“And sit in my chair.”
“And don’t move until they listen.”
William looked at the seal.
At the inscription on the back.
That only the direct bloodline knew existed.
Because it had never been made public.
Because it had been decided — at the time of the patriarch’s death — that it would go to the grave with him.
He turned it over.
Read it.
Looked up.
“This inscription,” he said carefully.
