“A love story?”
“A man who loses everything—including the woman he loves—and spends years trying to findhis way back to her.” Agnes’s voice had gentled. “He never stops loving her. Even when it seems impossible. Even when everyone tells him to move on.”
My heart twisted inside me.Does she want me to read this because she wants me to keep loving her, even when others have told me to move on?
“Sounds like a smart man.”
“Some people would call him foolish.” Agnes shifted and played with her ring.
“Some people would be wrong.”
Agnes didn’t respond. But when I glanced over, she was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“I’ll read it this week.” I took the book from her hands.
“It’s over one thousand pages.”
“I like a challenge.”
“You complained aboutTreasure Islandbeing too long.”
“I’ve had a change of heart. I’m a literary man now.” I tucked the book under my arm. “Besides, if this lad waited years for the woman he loved, I figure I can manage a few hundred pages for mine.”
Agnes’s breath caught, a tiny sound, barely audible.
I pretended not to notice.
“Come on,” I said, nodding to the car. “Let’s go dig through some dusty records.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AGNES
The castle archives had that faint musty smell of a room well sealed, and it always soothed me the moment I stepped inside. I’d spent countless hours in this room over the years, helping Hilda catalog documents, losing myself in Loren Brae’s history. The archives felt like a portal to another time, and if I didn’t have an actual job, I could lose myself for days at a time among the books and papers found here. The space was exactly what it needed to be… filled with a long wooden table, towering shelves, and narrow windows that let in just enough light. It almost felt like a secret part of the castle, sequestered in a room at the base of a tower, and I sighed with relief when I flicked on a lamp and warm light pooled across the empty table.
“You’re certain you don’t need anything?” Hilda hovered at the door, Sir Buster vibrating in her arms, lettingout little huffs of displeasure at us for interrupting his afternoon nap.
“I just shoved some scones down Agnes’s throat. We’re good for now,” Graham promised and hearing that we’d been fed, Hilda gave a brisk nod before shutting the door.
Leaving us together. Alone. In the archives.
The room felt different with Graham here. He took up space in a way that I couldn’t quite explain. Not just physically, though there was that too with his broad shoulders and long legs sprawled out as he settled into a chair like he planned to stay a while. It was more than that. It was the way he filled the room with his presence, his warmth, his relentless Graham-ness.
His very nearness seemed to prickle against my skin and heat flashed through my body.
Right. I needed to focus. Clearing my throat, I marched over to where he’d dropped the boxes we’d brought with us.
“So, there’s a system,” I said, pulling out the first box of Gran’s papers. “As every good archive should have. The older documents are in the back. Anything before 1700 is in the glass cabinets. You’ll want to use gloves with any old documents.”
“Mmm, gloves.” Graham nodded and I glanced sharply up to find him smiling at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Not funny. It’s just … you’re in your element. I never see you get so excited as you do when you’re explaining a good system.”
“An organized stack of books is the way to my heart,” I agreed.
“Is it then?” Graham very slowly pulledThe Count ofMonte Cristoout of his coat pocket and neatly arranged it in front of him. He fluttered his eyelashes over the top of it and despite myself, I giggled.
