Catherine smiled, though stiffly.
“You are kind to say so,” she returned, though she noted how his gaze lingered too long upon the central display before flicking back to her with polished brightness.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” he said smoothly. “It is only admiration for excellent work.”
With a graceful bow, he moved on, already angling toward another cluster of guests.
The afternoon wore on. The sun dipped lower, streaming through the tall windows in warm shafts that glanced off polished glass and lacquered wood. Alone now, Catherine moved from room to room, conducting her final inventory. It had become her quiet ritual at day’s end: to verify the integrity of the collection and prepare for the morrow. Ledger open in her hand, she checked each entry against the display.
In the southern alcove, she stopped.
A small gold Roman ring, set with a carnelian intaglio of a reclining hound, was missing.
Her pen froze. Her breath caught.
She bent closer, unwilling to believe her eyes. Yet the label remained precisely in place. The adjacent bronze fibula and bone stylus had shifted, only slightly—enough to suggest fullness, but not enough to disguise the gap from one who knew its contents as intimately as she did.
She opened her notebook again, her hand beginning to tremble. There, in her own careful script, was the entry.Ring, gold, Roman, carnelian intaglio, No. 47, displayed south alcove, second tier, between fibula and stylus.She herself had placed it there. Now it was gone.
A chill stirred through her chest. Perhaps it had been moved for closer inspection? Perhaps a guest had returned it carelessly, nudging the other pieces askew? She searched swiftly but with care: beneath the velvet, along the shelf’s base, behind adjoining objects. She checked each label, confirmed each entry. Foolishly, she told herself it might yet reappear, misplaced in the earnestness of study.
But the gap remained. The label stood alone.
Her throat tightened. She straightened slowly, unsettled. The familiar room seemed altered, its warmth edged with unease. If the ring had not merely been displaced, if it had been taken—
She pressed her palm against the ledger to steady it, willing her thoughts to order. Her steps quickened, near-silent upon the rugs, as she crossed the long room and the corridor beyond.
At the threshold of the adjoining study, she paused. Marcus stood near the hearth with William and James, the three in animated discourse. William gestured broadly, James’s brow lifted in pleased surprise. Likely they spoke of future projects—Celtic and Roman intersections, perhaps, or the ecclesiastical transformations of the fourth century.
Catherine stepped forward, her voice low, weighted.
“Marcus.”
He turned at once, his brow furrowing. Reading her face, he set his glass aside.
“Yes, Catherine?” His tone was already alert.
“I must speak with you privately,” she said. “At once.”
It was all she uttered, quietly, evenly. Yet it was enough.
Marcus nodded, his expression grave.
“Of course.” He turned to his companions. “Pray excuse me.”
Both William and James regarded her with surprise at the sudden change of temper. James half parted his lips to speak, but Rosalind entered from the adjoining room, remarking cheerfully to someone just behind her. Alexander followed close after, his brow knit in mild puzzlement as his gaze passed between Catherine and the others.
Catherine did not look their way again. Her gaze remained fixed upon Marcus. He did not falter, but moved toward the door without hesitation, following her from the room.
Chapter Fourteen
The door to the library closed with a soft but final sound, the click of the latch striking Marcus like an insult. He did not speak. He merely stood before the alcove, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring at the place where the Roman ring had once rested.
The absence was offensive in its quietness. No broken glass. No disturbance to betray the crime. Just a hollow gap, subtle and sickening.
He drew a breath through his nose. The air held nothing but the familiar scent of books and dust and old velvet, and still it felt somehow altered.
“You are certain it was not moved?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
