She unwrapped the parcel, handling each item with the reverence he had not expected from someone new to his world. A tile was placed, measured, and recorded with calm precision. He watched her a moment, then said quietly:
“My mother would have admired such attention.”
Catherine looked up, surprise softening her expression.
“You are kind to say so,” she replied gently.
He nodded but said no more. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching the fine strands of her hair as she bent once more to her notes.
“I believe we are finished with the main set,” she said, straightening.
Marcus glanced over the newly ordered table. “It has never looked like this before.”
Catherine laughed, the sound light after so much concentration.
“Then I shall consider that a success.”
He nodded with quiet fervour.
“It is.”
Chapter Seven
Marcus followed Catherine into the library, his hand resting lightly at her back as they passed through the open doorway. The scent of old vellum and beeswax polish hung in the still air. Lamplight slanted across rows of leather-bound volumes. The fire, banked but not extinguished, offered a quiet crackle that lent shape to the hour’s calm.
She crossed to the armchair nearest the hearth. He went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of port. When he returned and offered her one, her fingers brushed his; it was all he could do to keep his smile measured.
“Thank you,” she said, a faint flush rising in her cheeks.
Marcus seated himself opposite.
“Did you enjoy the reading I left this morning?” he asked. “The Cicero fragment. We have been so occupied today that I have not had the chance to hear your thoughts.”
Catherine nodded.
“It reminded me of my father,” she said softly. “He used to read Cicero aloud in the winter. He claimed the cadence improved in cold weather.”
Marcus smirked, raising an eyebrow.
“That sounds like a scholar’s superstition,” he said.
She laughed and gave another nod.
“It was,” she said. “And yet, he made it feel true.” She looked into her glass for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “He spent two decades on a manuscript about Roman domestic life. He died before it could be published.”
Marcus did not speak at once.Silence, he thought,might serve her more than a reply.
“I used to help him,” she continued. “I sorted references and copied from the source texts. I never understood how much it meant until the day we packed his library. Every margin held a thought left behind.”
Marcus looked at her, amazed.
“Then you do understand,” he said.
She lowered her chin.
“I do,” she said.
Marcus nodded in affirmation. “The fear of unfinished work shadows every scholar I have known.”
