Alexander watched her cross the room, skirt brushing lightly against the carpet’s edge. She disappeared into the records alcove, then returned moments later with the exact folio Sophia had named.
The discussion resumed, overlapping in earnest now as insights grew bolder and challenges more precise. The environment thrived on precision, clarity, and shared purpose. In that, Catherine and Marcus had succeeded beyond expectation.
Alexander let his eyes rest once more on the scene before him.
The quiet satisfaction that stirred beneath his ribs had little to do with his own remarks. It was, rather, a mingling of admiration and a touch of envy—for what Marcus had found in his new wife. That bond of intellect and ease, of competence matched with companionship, was rarer than most men could hope to claim. He rejoiced for his friend, yet a small, unbidden wish took root.
And should I be so fortunate, let her be the fortune I am granted—Rosalind.
Chapter Twelve
Catherine stood near the corner of the library, a stack of catalogued reports balanced on her forearm, her attention only partially on the conversation unfolding around the main table.
Edmund had spoken little the previous day, yet this morning, his participation took on an unexpected tone. His questions were not phrased to provoke, nor did they interrupt the natural rhythm of discussion. Rather, they seemed crafted to probe the depth of knowledge beneath polished presentation.
“Would you say that the fragment’s inscription supports its placement within the second-century ecclesiastical context? He asked mildly. “Or might it instead represent a later imitation of such stylistic conventions?”
The room quieted slightly. William frowned thoughtfully. James tugged his spectacles into place with a murmur. Edmund said nothing in reply, only inclined his head and returned to his notes.
Catherine felt no animosity in his manner. There was scrutiny, yes, but not hostility. He did not appear to test credentials. He tested comprehension. There was a difference, and she suspected the others would come to recognise it as well.
Harold, by contrast, had resumed his graceful navigation from group to group. His observations remained well-informed, even elegant. Yet something in the shape of his interventions struck her as rehearsed. He knew precisely when to speak, howto appeal to a scholar’s pride, which field to touch upon at just the moment it might secure admiration. It was not the breadth of his knowledge that troubled her; it was the certainty that he meant each comment to be remembered.
Catherine shifted the reports in her arms and glanced toward Marcus.
Harold’s knowledge was impressive. But it felt staged. She could not say why. She only knew that it felt performed.
***
By mid-afternoon, the long tables had become crowded with open portfolios, artefact trays, magnifiers, and meticulously labelled documents. The room smelled of parchment and candle wax.
Catherine moved quietly between workstations, noting how differently each guest approached the handling of ancient materials. William, of course, held each object with the delicacy of long practice. His fingers barely brushed the worn edges of a tesserae as he turned it toward the light, murmuring to Beatrice about stylistic variance across mosaic regions. Beatrice nodded, her attention no less focused, her pencil scratching methodically through her notes.
Charles used a different method, precise and military, weighing pieces with exacting steadiness, replacing each one on its padded tray with care that mirrored his battlefield logic. Sophia kept records as he worked, their soft exchanges never interrupting the steady rhythm of their examination.
Eleanor had just unwrapped a small amphora when James leaned over to point at a faint marking on its base. They spoke with lively familiarity, their enthusiasm obvious, though their hands never lost that careful respect for the fragility of time-worn artefacts.
Catherine’s gaze drifted to the corner where Henry sat, his sleeves neatly rolled, spectacles slipping a fraction down his nose as he examined a Roman clasp with quiet reverence. No performance, no affectation—only steady focus. He sought no notice, yet when he spoke, his observations bore weight.
She shifted slightly. Harold stood close by, conversing with Edmund.
“I mention it only because the registry records no findspot for the brooch tray recovered from the lower trench,” he said. “Curious, is it not?”
His tone was mild, his smile untroubled; yet Catherine felt that unwelcome stir of unease within her. The words were apt enough, pertinent even, yet they rang less of scholarly inquiry than of something quietly tallied. Moments later, he moved on, exchanging a few words with James, then Charles, each time drawing forth some small but pointed detail. It seemed he was always observing, always collecting.
But to what end?
Catherine’s attention strayed once more to Edmund. He spoke little, keeping himself, a pace removed from the main table, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His gaze travelled not merely across the artefacts, but over the hands that handled them. He marked fingers rather than faces; whorequested gloves, who did not; the weight of a grasp, the hesitation of a pause. He offered no comment, nor did he betray much interest in the objects themselves. It was the observers he observed. He watched the watchers.
Catherine pretended to arrange a stack of condition reports beside a case of coins but allowed herself one longer glance at Edmund. His dark eyes were fixed on Harold now. There was nothing overtly suspicious in Harold’s behaviour. But the pattern was there, visible only if one looked long enough.
By the time tea approached, Catherine stepped quietly into the smaller parlour where Rosalind was arranging the tea service. The silver spoons chimed gently as they settled into place.
“Rosalind,” Catherine said softly. “Have you noticed anything peculiar?”
Rosalind looked up, brows lifted slightly.
“Peculiar?” she asked.
