The interior of the brownstone was a physical manifestation of a paused dream. It was not opulent in the way of Thorne's estates or the old Vale penthouse. This was a scholar's wealth. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, worn Persian rugs over wide-plank oak floors, walls adorned with abstract art that spoke of passion rather than investment. The air smelled of old paper, beeswax polish, and the faint, sweet scent of dried lavender.
Isobel Vance led Amelia through a softly lit hallway. "You have her eyes," she said, her voice low and melodic. "The exact shade of storm-grey. Eleanor's were fiercer, always crackling. Yours… they observe. They take the measure of a room. That is a Sterling trait, I think."
Amelia was too overwhelmed to speak. This woman was a piece of her history, a branch on a family tree she thought had been scorched down to its trunk. "My father never mentioned you."
