Page 19

"I have studied your entire published works," she replied calmly. "Page numbers are a simple matter."

A low, genuine laugh escaped Julian, catching them both by surprise. Adelaide looked up at him, her hazel eyes brightening.

"You are formidable, Miss Ashbourne."

"I am thorough," she corrected softly. "There is a distinction."

They worked continuously through the morning as the light shifted across the library table. Adelaide sorted and annotated while Julian retrieved volumes and verified coordinates. They debated dates, argued fine details, and corrected taxonomy.

"This specimen," Adelaide noted, holding up a glass plate containing a pressed alpine bloom. "You recorded it as collected at fourteen hundred feet."

"Yes," Julian confirmed, looking up from his field ledger. "I gathered it personally and recall the elevation."

"Your memory has conflated the details," Adelaide stated serenely, setting the plate between them. "This is Gentiana acaulis, which grows above six thousand feet in the Alps. Fourteen hundred feet is far too low; the climate and soil would not support it."

"I conducted the climb myself, Miss Ashbourne. I recall the thin air, the cold, and the numbness in my fingers⁠—"

"Your fingers were cold because it was November and you lacked proper winter gear, not because of extreme altitude," Adelaide countered with serene confidence. "The root structure confirms the reality. Observe how the taproot extends deep into the mounting sheet; that growth pattern is characteristic of high-altitude soil conditions where the plant must reach deep for moisture. At fourteen hundred feet, the root system would be shallow and spread widely."

Julian inspected the root, looked at Adelaide, and returned his gaze to the glass plate. "I distinctly recall the ascent," he insisted, though his tone lacked its initial certainty.

"You recall an ascent, but you have merged two separate journeys. The Gentiana was gathered during your 1817 crossing, not your 1815 survey. You were at a much higher elevation."

Julian opened his mouth to object, closed it, and met her amused gaze.

"I do not concede the point," he said smoothly.

"The evidence requires it."

"I remain unconvinced."

"Your Grace," she said, her voice laced with quiet humor.

"I do not concede."

Adelaide lifted the glass plate slightly closer to him. "Observe the root structure once more."

"I am observing it."

"And what do you conclude?"

Julian looked from the specimen to her composed face, catching the faint twitch at the corner of her lips. A quiet, warm laugh escaped him.

"You have thoroughly proven your point," he admitted.

"On every detail," she affirmed softly.

"On every detail." Julian set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. "I spent thirteen years believing my field notes were beyond dispute."

"They are largely accurate," she reassured him. "You simply have a tendency to compress timelines when writing from memory long after the event."

Julian shook his head with a faint smile. "You shall prove the ruin of my self-regard."

"I shall prove the salvation of your scientific reputation," she replied. "There is a distinct difference."

He laughed again, and the lingering tension in the grand room dissolved completely.

Adelaide reached for the next journal on the stack at the exact moment Julian reached for it, their fingers brushing against the worn leather spine. The contact was brief, yet both stilled before withdrawing their hands.