She took a little while to examine the shelf list while they were talking. She found a likely title. “Folktales of Herefordshire. Maybe that will include some ghost stories. Oh, and Saints and Spirits of the Marches. Fitzgerald must have shelved some books together. Follow me.”
She whirled about, only to find herself inches away from Finn. The top of her head only came up to his nose, so she had to tilt her head back to see his face. “You’re in the way,” she said.
He shouldn’t look so interesting, she thought, noting a small pale scar high on his neck. It was distracting.
“Excuse me.” He stepped aside, though a little knowing smile played on his lips. Ignoring the frisson in her body, Camellia started to walk briskly.
Finn followed close behind. “You’re a worthy ally, Miss Swift. I’d have wandered past shelves for hours, despairing.”
“Well, I think it would be good to know if Hortense rehearsed her story, and what else it might say. It was a most, um, effective telling.”
He nodded. “Yes. At the end, she scarcely looked like herself. As if it wasn’t her speaking at all. I don’t see how she could have done that herself, though I can tell she would have done if she could.”
“She loves effect,” Camellia agreed. “But it was beyond her capability, I think.”
“Which leaves us to speculate as to what it actually was. I admit I had a few drinks after dinner, but I know you did not.”
She shook her head. “I wish the explanation was so easy.” At the proper shelf, she pulled down a few books. “Here. Take one of these and leaf through it. We may have a long search ahead of us.”
“Is it we, then?” He looked at her with an odd expression.
“I’m as curious as you are,” Camellia admitted. “And you called me your ally.”
He gave her a real smile, and it transformed his face. “Excellent.” He flipped his book open and leaned against the bookcase. “I’ll get to work, then.”
Camellia turned to her own book. His expression was difficult to ignore, but she tried to put aside the fluttering in her stomach and concentrated on the book.
She found nothing in the first volume, and she glanced at Finn before picking up the next one. The bright light threw his figure into relief. He’s too thin, she thought, seeing how his cheeks were sunk a little too much. He hasn’t taken care of himself. She understood what was so arresting about the look he’d given her earlier. She now had a name for the expression: hopeful.
A while later, they had sorted through six or eight books. Finn still leaned against a shelf or a wall, but Camellia had moved to a nearby chair.
“Anything interesting?” Finn asked.
“Interesting, yes,” she said. “Relevant, no.”
He put his book aside. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Camellia laid her book in her lap. “I was invited.”
“But why did you accept? There were other invitations, surely. Better crowds. Brighter circles. But you came to Wyemont Castle. Why?”
“Hortense is a very good friend. And I wanted to be here at Christmas, I suppose. I…missed the feeling of being around family.”
“By leaving your own family?”
“My stepfather and I don’t get on,” she said shortly. What was Finn getting at?
“And?”
“And what?” she asked, putting innocence into her voice.
He crossed his arms. “I’ll offer you a deal, Miss Swift. I’ll not pretend to be charming if you won’t pretend to be vapid.”
She blinked once. “Accepted.”
“So. Tell me. A happy refuge with your cousin is not all you’re here for.”
Camellia took a breath. “You’re right. I want to see the ghosts.”
