"Is another form of performance," he finished. "Come now, we've established that I'm desperately in love with your mind. Let me appreciate your voice as well."
The casual declaration of love still made her heart flutter, even after two weeks of this new honesty between them. She cleared her throat, feeling absurdly nervous, and began softly:
"Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade..."
Her voice was untrained but true, and she saw something shift in his expression as she sang. By the time she reached the second verse, he'd risen from his chair, moving toward her with the inevitable gravity of tide toward shore.
"Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade..." She faltered as he stopped just before her, close enough to touch but not touching, the space between them humming with restraint.
"Don't stop," he murmured. "Please."
She finished the verse, her voice growing breathier as his proximity overwhelmed her senses. The last note had barely faded when he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her with a tenderness that made her eyes sting with unexpected tears.
"You undo me," he whispered against her lips. "Completely and utterly undo me."
"The feeling is entirely mutual," she managed, her hands coming up to rest against his chest.
They'd gotten better at this; at taking these moments of connection without letting them derail the entire day. He kissed her once more, softly, then stepped back with visible effort.
"Now then," he said, his voice not quite steady, "you were explaining about Sapphic meter?"
She laughed, shakily but genuinely. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love," he corrected, returning to his desk with a grin that was boyish and ducal in equal measure. "Now teach me about Greek poetry before I forget myself entirely."
The morning progressed in this vein. Productive work interspersed with moments of connection that ranged from tender to passionate to simply companionable. Morrison had become a regular fixture, his enthusiasm for the French manuscripts infectious. He'd also proven unexpectedly useful as a distraction when the attraction between Adrian and Eveline threatened to overwhelm their good intentions.
"Miss Whitcombe!" The young man burst into the library just as Adrian was demonstrating exactly how much he appreciated her translation of a particularly sensuous passage of Ovid. They sprang apart, though not with the guilty haste of their earlier encounters.
"Mr. Morrison," Eveline said, smoothing her skirts while Adrian straightened his cravat. "You seem excited."
"I am! I've found something extraordinary in the French collection. A palimpsest. The under-text appears to be classical, possibly Aristotle? But I need your expertise to confirm."
She followed him to the corner where he'd set up his informal workspace, aware of Adrian's amused gaze tracking their movement. Morrison's discovery was indeed interesting—faint Greek text visible beneath the medieval French, tantalizing in its partial visibility.
"You're right," she confirmed after careful examination. "This is definitely Aristotelian. See the characteristic terminology here? And the hand is much earlier than the over-text, possibly fifth or sixth century."
"Fifth century?" Morrison practically vibrated with excitement. "But that would make it..."
"Extremely valuable," Adrian finished, joining them at the table. "Well done, Morrison. This is a significant find."
The young man glowed under the praise, launching into theories about how the manuscript might have been reused, which scriptoriums might have been involved, what other texts might be hidden in the collection. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon all three of them were deep in scholarly discussion.
It was in moments like these that Eveline felt the true magic of their arrangement. Here she was, doing work she loved, making real discoveries, being treated as the expert she was. The fact that she was also desperately in love with her employer had become just another facet of a life that grew richer by the day.
Thursday brought her museum day and with it a new level of recognition. Thornbury greeted her with barely contained glee, practically dragging her to the manuscript room.
"You were right!" he exclaimed before she'd even removed her cloak. "About your theory about regional variations…. because I've been examining manuscripts from other collections, and the pattern holds. Look at this manuscript which shows the same scribal quirks as our MS.341, while this one has the variant patterns you predicted."
She spent the morning verification his findings, her excitement growing with each confirmed observation. By noon, they had enough evidence to support a major publication on Byzantine manuscript transmission.
"This will revolutionize the field," Thornbury said, adjusting his spectacles to peer at her notes. "Miss Whitcombe, I hope you realise what you've accomplished here. Scholars have been puzzling over these variations for decades, and you've solved it in a matter of weeks."
"I had excellent materials to work with," she deflected, though pride warmed her chest. "And your support has been invaluable."
"Nonsense. The insight was yours." He leaned back in his chair, fixing her with those keen eyes. "Which brings me to my next point. The board has approved funding for a special project. Six months, focused on cataloguing and analyzing ourentire Byzantine collection with your methodology. The position would come with a significant increase in compensation and, more importantly, full publication rights."
"Mr. Thornbury, I..." She stopped, overwhelmed. "That's extraordinary."
