Aoife took a few quick steps to catch up with Halverton.
“Alton,” Aoife said. “What’s his role?”
Halverton raised an eyebrow, as if surprised she’d remembered the name. “Alton is my valet. Manservant would be a better title. He is my right-hand man. I rely on him for everything.”
“Do you mind my asking,” Aoife almost changed her mind but went on, “about his injuries?”
“What about them?”
How could she say she was surprised he, of all people, had a manservant who would struggle to pour a glass of wine?
“I was wondering how he manages.”
“He does admirably well. The tasks he can not do, he gets a footman to assist him with. Loyalty is worth far more than skill.”
He stopped in front of a heavy door and turned to look at her directly. “Alton pulled me out of a fire. He saved my life, and I saved his in return by giving him a job. He owes me everything, and he knows it. A man like that would never even think of disloyalty. That is why he is the perfect manservant.”
“Now,” he went on, laying a hand on the large metal doorknob. “Close your eyes.”
She was reluctant to do so. She barely knew this man, had no idea what he might consider a pleasant surprise. It could be anything behind the door, from an elegant dining room to a pack of wailing banshees.
“Close your eyes.” His tone brokered no argument, and she obeyed.
His hand settled on her lower back as he guided her forward. The hinges creaked; the air beyond the threshold was cooler, thick with the smell of old paper and beeswax. Not banshees, at least.
“Now, look.”
She opened her eyes and caught her breath.
The library rose around her in quiet splendour, shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. A tall window admitted weak northern light, but the corners were shadowed.
He watched her reaction with satisfaction. “You like it.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said honestly.
“Most of it was here before my time,” he said. “I can not claim to have curated it. Still, it is… impressive, is it not?”
He led her toward a side alcove. “These are the books Florence—” He caught himself, but not soon enough. “The books women prefer. Light reading. Romances, mostly.” Aoife burned to ask who Florence was, but she could tell from the way he acted that he didn’t want her to ask.
He leant over to read the titles and gently tugged one out. His smile as he looked at it pulled at the scars on the side of his face. He held it out to her.
She took the proffered book and turned it in her hands. It was pale blue with the title embossed.
“Sit. Read. Enjoy. I will send Mrs Harrow in shortly to show you to your room.” With that, he left.
Aoife sat down and flicked open the book he handed her. Within a page, she let out a breath, almost a laugh.
Of course. A romance with a heroine described as possessing beauty “deserving the word,” fluent in music, languages, and art, possessed of ineffable charm. A creature sculpted for admiration.
Aoife rubbed her thumb along the gilt edge. So that’s what he wants. That’s the version of me he’s already building in his head.
Cormac’s words returned, sharper this time. She’d dismissed them as anger and fear, and exaggeration. But Halverton had placed this book in her lap like a gift. Or a guide.
She leaned back in the chair; the page blurring. She could play along, let him think she was willing to become this ideal. It might buy her time. But how much of herself was she willing to let this place smooth away? How much could she pretend before the pretending became real?
Chapter 7
After a moment, she opened the book again. She needed to know what exactly he thought she could be.
