Then she saw it, over the fireplace. The manor in the magical glow of a full moon. Moody and brilliant, the subtle light, the deep shadows, the gleam against glass in the turrets. “That’s my father’s work.” Her voice felt tight in her throat as she moved closer. “Are you sure? I don’t see how—” “I know my father’s work. This is his signature. MacT—that’s how he signed his work. Bottom left corner. It’s right there.”
