He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t see his face very well in the dim light. After a long moment, he just said, “Go get some sleep, Astrid.”

If he thought she was going to keep pressing, he was sorely mistaken. Without another word, she strode toward the grand staircase at the back of the foyer. Next to it sat a small birdcage elevator fashioned with wrought-iron whiplash curves—a luxury Pappa had installed before he died. But it made enough noise to wake the dead, so she walked past it to climb the stairs. A hand gripped her arm on the first step.

She spun around and stared at Bo, his face all sharp lines.

“Have you been up to the top of the turret yet?” he whispered.

“No,” she said, unsure why he’d be asking that.

“When you go, check the hiding spot.” He released her arm and faded into the dark foyer, leaving her speechless.

When she was sure he was gone, she raced up the stairs to the second floor. Her room was on the right. Everything was just how she’d left it when she went to Los Angeles in the fall: pale pink rose patterns on the four-poster bed, the rugs, and the curtains. A little too feminine, she’d decided earlier today when she’d first arrived home from the train station. But she didn’t care about that now. She dumped her handbag and ruined heels on the floor and headed down the second-floor hallway in stockinged feet to the back stairs.

This particular staircase was rarely used; after the elevator was installed, most of the house’s activity had shifted to the western side, and, consequently, the primary staircase near the kitchen—which began near Bo’s room and ascended to the third floor, stopping outside Winter’s study. However, the back stairs that she now climbed went all the way to up the attic, a low-ceilinged half story at the top of the house that her father had begun renovating for her mother, and which included the top of the Queen Anne’s “witch hat” style turret.

The top of the turret, though stuffy in the hotter months, had the best view of the Bay and the rooftops of Pacific Heights. And it was here that Astrid bent down in front of a window seat, eager to find what Bo had left her.

When Winter first met Bo, he was a fourteen-year-old pickpocket in Chinatown. And because he was so good at it, having successfully stolen from Winter at a boxing gym, Winter hired him to do odd jobs—delivering messages and packages, spying, that sort of thing. But when Bo’s uncle died of a heart attack two years later, Winter permanently took in the former pickpocket, and Bo proceeded to live with Winter and his first wife, who later died in the accident with Mamma and Pappa. And after that, when Winter moved back into the Queen Anne three and a half years ago, he brought Bo with him.

Astrid was fifteen when her parents died. And though she’d seen Bo off and on before that summer, when he moved into the Queen Anne with Winter, it was the first time she’d really talked to him—here in the top of the turret, in fact. It was Mamma’s favorite spot in the house, and Astrid found solace here, reading.

And chatting with Bo.

He’d lost his mother at an even younger age than Astrid, and it was easy to talk to him. Comforting, even. After school, she’d come up here and he’d teach her words in Cantonese or share childhood memories about growing up in Chinatown. Astrid especially liked the Chinese fables he’d learned from his mother, which he would retell to Astrid with enthusiastic irreverence, mischievously changing the stories to brighten her mood.

It was during one such retelling that Bo found the secret cubby below the window seat, quite by accident when he kicked it open one afternoon. And as their friendship grew, they began leaving small treasures for each other inside it. Notes. Candy. Found things. Pranks.

They hadn’t used it in over a year.

Astrid’s heart raced madly as she hit the top corner of the panel with her fist, once, twice, and then it popped off. Darkness filled the small hiding spot. Astrid stuck her arm inside, warily feeling around, until her hand touched something.

She pulled out a small box wrapped in rose-patterned silk fabric. The bow was almost too perfect to touch, but in her curiosity she tugged it open after a few reverent seconds. Inside, winking up at her in the darkness, was a silver wristwatch.

It was simple and beautiful. And of course it was, because Bo had excellent taste and was the best-dressed man she knew. But the most important thing was that it was from him. He’d read her letters, and he’d remembered her birthday, after all.

Her breath hitched. Joy flooded her chest. She gingerly picked up the dainty watch and traced the long, rectangular face and the mesh bracelet-style band. The pad of her fingertip felt something on the back plating. She flipped it over and held it up to the thin moonlight that filtered in from the window. Elongated script slanted over the metal. The engraving read:

One day, three autumns.

A Chinese idiom that Bo had taught her years ago. It meant, When you miss someone, one day apart feels as long as three years.

Astrid pressed the watch to her breast and promptly fell apart.

FOUR

Bo didn’t sleep well that night. He’d kept the door to his room cracked for an hour after he left Astrid on the staircase, listening to the rain on the narrow window above his bed, half hoping she’d come down after she found the gift. In the past, she’d occasionally sneaked down the servants’ stairwell to talk to him at night. There were six private rooms along this corridor, as well as a community room and dining area. And though his room wasn’t the biggest—the head housekeeper, Greta, claimed that one—it was, by far, the most secluded, around a sharp corner from the stairwell, away from everyone else. Easy enough for Astrid to manage without getting the attention of other ears.