Catherine nodded, cutting an inconspicuous glance in Edmund’s direction.
“About Edmund,” she said.
Rosalind’s gaze sharpened at once. She straightened, folding a cloth napkin carefully.
“Actually, I have,” she said. “He possesses just a little too much charm. He asks too many questions. He knows the preciseacademic focus of every guest by now, though no one recalls offering it. He keeps topics light but steers every conversation toward documentation or provenance.”
Catherine nodded.
“And when he asks about specific pieces, he phrases it as scholarly interest, but he is too thorough,” she said, almost whispering. “It is the kind of precision one expects from cataloguers, not theorists.”
“I thought that as well,” Rosalind said. “He asked Eleanor about the transport routes used for certain shipments under the guise of trade route analysis, but I felt as though he were memorising more than learning.”
Catherine folded her hands.
“He has not done anything I could call improper,” she said. “Yet when he addresses me, I feel watched—not with admiration, but as if under scrutiny.”
Rosalind poured the water into the teapot, her tone crisp.
“I have also noticed Harold,” she said, also dropping her voice to something barely audible.
Catherine hesitated.
“You think him untrustworthy?” she asked.
Rosalind shook her head, her expression cautious and contemplative.
“No,” she said slowly. “I think he is not what he allows others to believe. He is testing the room.”
Catherine sat down carefully.
“Then we must do the same,” she said.
Rosalind’s eyes met hers.
“I agree,” she said.
It was not yet evening, yet already the tenor of the gathering had shifted. Not in outward action, but in undercurrent.
Catherine no longer regarded it as a mere affair of logistics and scholarly hospitality. Something subtler, more fragile, was taking root—something she must watch just as vigilantly as the artefacts entrusted to her care.
***
Marcus stood near the hearth with his notes in hand, watching as the morning unfolded around him. Papers rustled. Ink bottles clinked faintly against porcelain saucers. The warm scent of coffee mingled with wax and parchment, but it was not the comforting routine of solitary study. This was something altogether different. This was living scholarship, a convergence of minds upon which reputations would rise or falter.
He moved through the space slowly, listening. William, seated at the main table, read aloud from a Latin transcription, his cadence steady, his interpretations precise. The man’s scholarship carried the weight of decades, his footnotes citedfrom memory. When others questioned a term or alternate translation, William welcomed the challenge with grace, offering sources, parallel examples, and historical context without hesitation.
Nearby, Catherine had just handed Sophia a tray of catalogued pottery fragments, already marked with her tidy notations in the ledger. Marcus paused as he watched his wife speak softly to Beatrice, clarifying how a recently identified shard had been traced to a villa near Lindum. Catherine’s explanations were concise, her references exact. Not one word sounded rehearsed. Not one sentence lacked substance. They respected her. It was unmistakable. He felt a subtle pride stir in his chest for the simple fact that she belonged in this company as thoroughly as he did.
Across the room, James unrolled a set of maps. Eleanor gestured at a site near Hadrian’s Wall, her brow furrowed as she traced a route marked in red pencil.
“You are certain the coin was found there?” she asked.
James nodded firmly.
“Positive,” he said, lifting the artefact itself. “Second century. The mint mark is clear. But its placement makes no strategic sense.”
Charles leaned in.
