“Mr. Ashford will join us shortly,” the butler lied.

“No return address, Professor?” Luke asked.

“Indeed. A riddle’s first rule, Luke, is never to trust instructions that forbid witnesses.” Layton’s eyes narrowed. “The handwriting trembles. Fear or deception—either way, a puzzle awaits.” Crow’s Foot Manor was less a manor and more a monument to grief. Its spires clawed at a bruised twilight sky. The air smelled of wet stone and wilting roses. As they approached the iron gates, a figure emerged from the fog—a butler with skin like old parchment and eyes that never blinked.

“Mr. Ashford,” Layton said softly. “You never left, did you?”

He touched a doll. Its porcelain head snapped off. A note fluttered out: “Sing the silence or join the choir.”