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We were led to a room on the vast second floor of the library, our footsteps immediately quieted on a layer of thick green carpet, atop which rows of reading of carrels lay waiting under high boxed ceilings.
In the center of the room, a number of desks had been laid with a variety of materials, including what looked like several letters, at least three manuscripts, some kind of transcribed music, a box with a flower drawn on the top, and a portable wooden desk opened with a pair of glasses inside.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said the librarian, holding out two pairs of white gloves—a smaller set for me and a large set for Xavier.
I took them eagerly, curious to explore the treasures laid out. Then I peeked up at Xavier, who was frowning while he tugged on the gloves. “What have you done?”
He bit his bottom lip and offered a mischievous half-smile. “Can’t you tell yet?”
“Please keep the manuscripts on their cradles at all times,” Ms. Willoughby instructed. “I shall wait at the desk if you have any questions. These are national treasures. So…do be careful.” She opened her mouth like she wanted to say more. It was clear she was very hesitant about allowing either of us to touch the things she’d set out. “Please,” she finished, then left us to explore.
“How did you do this?” I wondered, approaching the tables. “You need a pass to access these rooms. My friend did research for her dissertation here, and she said there’s an interview and everything.”
I tread carefully, feeling like I was disturbing someone’s grave or something equally taboo.
Xavier just shoved his hands deep into his pockets and smirked, watching me look around. “One thing I’ve learned: there’s no door you can’t open for the right price. In London or anywhere else.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, honestly. Some things were sacred, in my opinion. I didn’t think access to Shakespeare’s folios or the Magna Carta should be granted based on the size of one’s wallet.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take advantage of the opportunity while I had it. It wasn’t until I read one of the letters between a sister and her brother, detailing news from home and hopes for a novel meant to meet the success of P. and P. , that I realized what I was looking at.
I jerked up when I saw the familiar signature at the end. “Xavi.”
Hands clasped behind his back, his gaze was firmly on me, not the manuscripts. “Hmm?”
“Did you—is this—this is the Jane Austen collection, isn’t it?”
Xavier blinked, cheeks ruddy. “Just might be.”
“Xavi!”
Finally, his full grin emerged. “Like it?”
“Like it?” I mimicked back.
In response, I received a laugh of pure joy before he pulled me close to deliver a brief but forceful kiss.
“Oh my God,” I murmured. “Not in front of the letters!”
He laughed again, then kissed me once more before releasing me.
“I just like to see you happy,” he said. “Now try on those specs. If I’m a naughty schoolboy, I want to see what you look like as a naughty librarian.”
I shook my head; all jokes evaporated as I looked at the glasses sitting on the desk my favorite authorof all timemay have used to write some of her novels. The idea that such greatness had even touched it—that she might have even worn those exact spectacles while dreaming of Mansfield Park made me shiver, like I’d seen a ghost. “No. I couldn’t.”
“Scaredy cat.”
I turned. “I am not.”
“Are too. It’s a pair of glasses, Ces. What do you think would happen—the police appear and arrest you for sitting? Break a rule for once.”
“I—but she’s—but they belong to—”
“Do it for me.” Xavier delivered another quick smack to my backside. “Otherwise no supper for you.”
I glanced between him and the glasses, torn between seeing that smile on his face once more and obeying my desire to follow the rules.
To absolutely no one’s surprise—not even mine—Xavier won.
