Her voice was soft and tentative. He rose from his chair, conscious of the mess of papers scattered across the desk and a half-drunk cup of tea grown cold. She looked tired, though composed, wrapped in her shawl as though the library’s fire might not suffice.
“This house is as much yours as it is mine,” he said. “Take any book you wish.”
She drifted toward the nearest shelf. Her fingers traced the spines without selecting one, pausing now and again as if she meant to choose but could not quite decide. Marcus remained near the hearth. He could smell her perfume faintly, something floral and subtle, carried on the same air that brought the scent of ash and leather from the bindings nearby.
Her presence altered the room’s atmosphere entirely.
“I believe I have read every volume in the upper left corner of that shelf,” he said, to break the silence.
She glanced over to the books he was referencing.
“Those are the antiquities volumes,” she said. “You mentioned they were due for re-binding.”
He allowed himself a small nod.
“Yes,” he said with a laugh. “I remember.” He paused. “I cannot seem to think of antiquities at present.”
“No,” she said, quieter. “Nor I.”
The space between them was not far, but it felt impossible to cross. She stood there among his books, her shawl drawn close, eyes resting on the rows of bindings but not truly reading any titles.
Everything about her was familiar now, but he could not read her thoughts tonight.
“There was something comforting about the order of scholarly things,” she said, her back still to him. “Even the simplest cataloguing task offered a kind of refuge.”
Marcus looked down at the fire, the logs shifting inward as they burned.
“The refuge has become a battlefield,” he said. “Every name and scrap of parchment could prove or ruin everything.”
She turned slowly, her eyes catching the firelight. “I thought you had gone to bed.”
“I attempted it. Without success,” he said. “I have been sorting through some of Edmund’s observations. His notes are thorough, but Harold’s case leaves little room for error.”
She said nothing. Her expression gave little away, though he thought he saw regret, perhaps, or hesitation.
“Edmund carries more of the burden than he should,” Marcus said, continuing. “But he keeps it to himself.”
Catherine inclined her head, acknowledging the weight that seemed to press upon the scholar.
“It is wearing on him,” he said.
Marcus sighed, nodding.
“And on us,” he said, more softly than he intended.
The clock in the corridor struck the half hour. The sound was muffled, but final. She stood just on the other side of the hearth, close enough that he could see the faint sheen of weariness around her eyes, the way the firelight softened her features.
“I am glad you are here,” he said, unsure whether he meant the room, the house, or his life.
Her gaze met his.
“So am I,” she said, and he was uncertain what she meant, as well, by the hitch in her breath and the softness in her eyes.
He did not move. Neither did she.
The moment did not demand action, only that it be endured, in quiet understanding of everything neither of them had yet found the courage to say.
She turned to him.
