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Bellona had promised to search out a book and study it—because that was the only way to finally quiet the woman and escape.
The library was empty. Bellona pulled out the first book she saw, opened it, shuddered and, with a thunk, slid it back on to the shelf. That one was not even in English. She did not know the language at all.
Poetry might be ideal, she mused. That was why people liked poems. A poem did not require as much reading.
If she memorised a verse of a poem that she could recite in a mournful voice and become too carried away to finish... She could honestly claim it to be her favourite verse and favourite book and perhaps that would satisfy the duchess.
Bellona searched until she found a volume of poetry with a long introductory section at the beginning. She skipped that.
Bellona sat in the library with the book, staring at the few bits of words she recognised and the pleasant white space, knowing she would have to study the dribs of ink in more detail.
Pages. Pages and pages. Whoever invented paper must have hated everyone. Whoever decided to put words into sentences should have had to sit in a room with nothing else but paper and ink and a pen and write for the rest of his life.
But this family placed importance on books and if books meant something to them then Bellona would try to read. Especially if it might make the long stretches of night move more quickly.
She tried to sound out the first word. E. X. P. O. S. T. The next letter, U, she did not recall at all. L. A. T. I. O. N. She did not remember enough to read even the first word. She groaned at the fifth line. Books. That word she could read. This poem had books in it, which made no sense at all.
The duke strode into the room. He still wore the clothes of the day, but had discarded his coat. His sleeves would have been out of place on Melos, too much cloth and very white. The waistcoat, obsidian, and the night, took the lightness from his face, creating a cold look which reminded her of the marble pieces she’d seen on her island. They were all crushed and broken, though, and he didn’t appear possible to shatter.
His face showed the beard trying to poke through for morning. He raked his fingers through his hair.
‘I thought you did not like books.’
She could not make out the first word of the title. She held it up so he could see. ‘I don’t. This biblio...’
He walked closer, bringing all the pleasant scents of the outside with him. He’d been riding. Leather and wool blended into the air.
‘Lyrical Ballads,’ he read aloud.
She gave a sideways turn of her head. ‘I have read enough of it.’
His eyebrows rose in question.
Nodding, she admitted, ‘One word was enough. I even like embroidery better than reading. At least when you finish sewing you have something to show for it. When you finish a book, you still have the same pages you started with and tired eyes.’
‘You’ve not read the right story.’
‘I’ve not read any book.’ She stood. ‘I do not have to eat a tree to know if I would like how it tastes.’
‘Sit for a moment,’ he said, indicating the sofa. He walked to the shelves behind the sofa.
‘Do not try to make me read.’
He tugged a book out and held it so she could see the title. ‘This is a tale you cannot help but enjoy. I’ll give you a primer on it.’
‘Does your mana like the story?’
His jaw dropped. ‘Of course Mother likes the book. Everyone does.’
‘She expects me to read to her. She said when she holds out the book far enough to read the letters, her arms collapse.’
‘She has spectacles. She refuses to wear them when anyone is near.’
‘Spectacles? Then I will not worry about reading. If she wishes to read badly enough, she will do it herself.’
He rested the book against the top of the sofa back. ‘Perhaps you could just read some Robinson Crusoe to her. If you do not like it, then you can truly say you do not like books.’
‘If I do not like him, then you will believe me?’
‘Yes.’
She settled into the edge of the sofa, her back straight. A crease appeared between his brows, but then his attention returned to the book in his hand.
Letting him worry about the words would be so much easier than doing it herself.
He moved to the chair across from her, whisking the lamp along with him and setting it at the side. He took up much more of the area than she’d believed possible. ‘Listen.’
He read aloud for a few moments and his voice became like a soft thunder off in the distance when rain was needed. Something pleasant and hopeful. Her thoughts were pulled along with his words.
‘Wait,’ she interrupted.
He looked up from the words, his brows knit again, and that caused her own face to tighten.
