Until the Dawn by Elizabeth Camden

the trees around Dierenpark and was pleased to see Quentin join them for breakfast this time, eating in silence at the end of the table, listening to Pieter gleefully recount his adventure on the roof with Sophie.
    After breakfast, Quentin retreated to the orangery, a splendid building added to Dierenpark in the early nineteenth century. Built mostly of glass panes enclosed with gothic white arches, it was capable of keeping trees and plants flowering throughout the year. It was located only a stone’s throw from the main house, and from the kitchen window she watched Quentin cross the short distance to the orangery. It was a slow journey. His entire body tensed each time he put weight on his damaged leg, and twice he paused to catch his breath.
    What was his interest in the orangery? Whatever it was must be important for him to make the painful journey. As she cleaned the kitchen, she saw no one else join him, and it would be an excellent time to speak with him in private. Now that they had established a modicum of civility between them, a direct conversation would be the best way to understand his motives for tearing down the house.
    She headed to the orangery as soon as the kitchen was tidy. Inside, he sat on one of the benches near the potted lemon trees, scribbling in a notebook. She knocked on the door, waiting until he bid her to enter. The air was warmer inside, perfumed by the scents of citrus, lavender, and viburnum.
    “How long has this orangery been here?” he asked.
    “I think it was added by Karl Vandermark,” she said. “Sometime in the 1820s, I suspect.”
    “Hmmm.” He sounded entirely displeased as he went back to scribbling in his notebook.
    “Why? Don’t you like it? Most people love the orangery.”
    “I didn’t know about it,” he said. “All this glass will be a danger during the demolition process. So no, I am not particularly dazzled by this orangery.”
    “Mr. Vandermark,” she began hesitantly, “can you tell me why you wish to tear down Dierenpark? Your family’s history of benign neglect seems to have served everyone quite well. And if you no longer wish to carry the financial burdens of the estate, why don’t you simply sell it?”
    He didn’t even bother to look up from his notebook as he continued making notes. “My grandfather wants the land turned back to its natural state. Some kind of nonsense about healing the land and beginning anew.”
    “But why?”
    He gave a snort of derision. “Who knows why eccentric old millionaires do anything? He wants the building torn down, so that’s what will happen.”
    “Your grandfather was the boy who found his father floating dead in the river, right?”
    He folded his arms across his chest, watching her through speculative eyes. “ Found his father in the river? That’s a kind word for it. Most people think he killed Karl Vandermark in order to get his hands on the family fortune that much sooner.”
    “I don’t believe it. He was only a child.”
    “He was fourteen,” Quentin challenged. “Old enough to pull it off.”
    “I still don’t believe it.”
    Although plenty of people in the village did. The Vandermarks’ insistence on privacy only fueled the wagging tongues. After the tragedy, a team of lawyers immediately surrounded fourteen-year-old Nickolaas until his estranged mother came racing back from Europe to drag the boy to France and away from the reach of the American justice system. Over the decades, Nickolaas refused to speak of what had happened to hisfather, and rumors filled the void. Sixty years later, a cloud of suspicion still hung over the old man.
    Not that it mattered. Sophie merely needed to know how to stop Quentin from demolishing Dierenpark. “But why you?” she pressed. “How can you let yourself be drawn into something so irrational?”
    His pencil froze. His face suddenly seemed haunted, possibly the saddest expression she’d ever seen.
    “Because I am loyal,” he finally said. “I owe