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I forced myself to smile. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Whitting.”
She clapped her hands. “Well, time to get to work.” She led me to the corner of the library, where miniature drawers filled the shelves instead of books. “This catalog is in desperate need of reorganization. Some patrons can be so careless.”
I looked at the drawers hanging out, cards spilled on the ground, and shelves that rose to the ceiling. “This looks like an important job,” I said. “Out of my abilities, in fact. Wouldn’t you say this falls more under the responsibility of anactuallibrarian?” Apaidone, I thought but didn’t say aloud.
“It is indeed arduous,” Mrs. Whitting said gravely, “which is why I will remain beside you to supervise the task.”
“Oh no, no, no,” I said. “That won’t be necessary.” As unpleasant as the job looked, spending the day with Mrs. Whitting would be far worse. And I might never get a chance to give Graham my book, even if he didn’t have guards at his door.
But, to my misfortune, she stayed.
* * *
Balancingon a creaky ladder while sorting through thousands of cards in a musty library was my worst task so far. Dusting was almost fun in comparison. My hands were full of paper cuts and my mouth full of curse words, at least when Mrs. Whitting wasn’t listening. At midday, she finally left for lunch, giving me my desperately needed hour of freedom.
I was climbing down the wooden ladder when I saw Graham coming my way. His two guards trailed him, turning my relief into anxiety.
When my feet hit the ground, he stopped in front of me and bowed, his expression brightening as he met my eye.
I put my hands up. “Please. You don’t have to bow!” I couldn’t decide if he was enjoying my discomfort or just unaware, but either way, I couldn’t take it.
“Sorry, milady. I suppose it’s a habit.”
“Would you mind losing the ‘milady’ habit as well?” I asked.
He frowned. “Then what shall I call you?”
“My name is Bryn Yarrow.”
He extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Yarrow.”
I stood and faced him, waiting to see if he’d offer his name, or maybe a false one. But he didn’t. I was beginning to realize he was the hopelessly honest type who hadn’t yet learned that the truth would give him nothing in return. When the silence grew awkward, I abruptly reached out and shook his hand, feeling an unexpected heat in the touch.
I pulled back my hand and nodded toward the guards watching us from about twenty feet away. “I see you brought friends with you today.”
He laughed. “Well . . . it was my mother’s idea. She’s afraid for my safety so she insisted that these guards not let me out of their sight.”
“So you’re a nobleman,” I said, my voice tinged with a hint of accusation. “That explains the bowing. And the milady. And the general”—I gestured toward him—“you know.”
He bit his lip. “Does that bother you?”
I hesitated. “It confuses me. I wouldn’t have expected a nobleman to enjoy a book about outlaws.”
He glanced back at his guards before lowering his voice. “Do you have any idea how it came to be here? Or who wrote it?”
“I told you. It belongs to the library.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I searched the entire catalog this morning and I swear there’s nothing—”
“That was you?” I interrupted.
He cringed under my glare. “I’m sorry, but I had to know. I nearly asked the other librarians to find the book for me, but I was ashamed to even mention the title. I have a growing suspicion that it’s not an Academy-approved book.” He ended his sentence in a whisper.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted his curiosity, but I didn’t want to reveal too much. “Would you still read it if you found out it wasn’t?”
He frowned. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
