Ginny must have tucked other pieces of paper under the floor, drawings with concentric circles, charms to keep evil away. But this one board and this one piece of paper were special. The floorboards creaked and groaned, and there was a bump against the wall, then another. The ghost in the room was restless, perhaps afraid. She unfolded the paper. There, in Ginny’s beautiful handwriting, was the name of her murderers. The name that Beatrice Tremblay had longed to know and never suspected. It was a familiar name. “Wingrave,” Minerva said, reading the piece of paper. The old lightbulb above her
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