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He pulled out a book, scanned the cover, then put it back.
“I did. It’s been a constant in my life for so long, equal parts haven and burden to my soul.” He was working to keep levity in his tone, but a ribbon of sorrow crept in, and I felt for him. “My grandfather built this place. He died shortly after its completion, leaving it to my father—a young man at the time, recently married to my mother, and suddenly the master of a ridiculous mansion and a large fortune. He had no idea what to do with it, and almost went bankrupt. But then my mother took the helm. The cosmetics industries began to boom with the opening of all the new department stores in the cities, and she insisted they be part of it. Her family had consisted of a long line of herbalists and perfumery was most natural.”
“Your mother sounds like a force to be reckoned with,” I offered, wishing I’d had an opportunity to meet her.
“She was. She was also a doting parent. I have many fond memories. Of course, she had her idiosyncrasies. She’d spent most of her life in County Cork, and she brought her superstitions.”
“Yes, you mentioned all the fairy motifs were her doing.”
“They were,” he replied after a small pause. “She believed the Good Folk had given her blessings. All good things that happened were a miracle from the Seelie. She worshiped them happily, and so much of Willowfield is a dedication to them.”
“That’s quite magical.”
“It could be; she made it so.” He grew silent, his search slowing.
“When I was twelve,” he continued, somewhat unsure as though he was still deciding whether he should reveal the next information, “she contracted tuberculosis and died shortly after. On her deathbed, she told me the fae were collecting on the debt she owed them for so many years of prosperity. And for me.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiled, rueful. “She thought I was a fae child, gifted to her after years of being barren.”
I dropped my hand from the books, lifting my head to see his eyes, but he wouldn’t return my gaze. He appeared pained.
I reached to touch his arm. It rested there for a moment before he placed his hand over mine, holding it.
“You were so patient to listen to all of that.” He released me, and we returned to searching for the elusive text. “I’m sure Ms. Dillard told you the entire history of this place with all its hidden bitterness. She didn’t care much for my parents.”
“Ms. Dillard doesn’t seem to care much for anyone.”
“You’re being unfair, Millie,” he scolded, though not too harshly, aware of the type of person Ms. Dillard was. “She’s got a hard shell, but she’s a warm person underneath it all.”
“Hm,” I said, unconvinced.
“Dr. Hannigan is hopelessly in love with her.”
I was so surprised, my laughter came out a high squawk.
“You’re lying!”
“You always accuse me of being a liar, it’s really unfair.” He was joking, but I was contrite.
“Do you truly think he is?”
“I would bet my own life on it. I’d also venture to wager she’s sweet on him too, and her own feelings infuriate her.”
I could empathize.
“He’s doomed,” I lamented playfully.
“All men in love are.”
His lids lowered as, at last, his gaze dipped to find mine, too full of meaning. I hastily retreated.
“We won’t have any luck,” I said, heading to the desk and crumpling the paper, unsure why I did, other than the simple explanation that I was panicking. “We’ll have to mark this one as a loss, and you’ll have to be more careful with your notes in the future. If I can’t decipher this chicken scratch, no one can.”
