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“Y ou were right, my prince, she is quite the beauty.”

Dickens’s voice startled him as he closed the door behind him and paused in the hallway. His valet seemed to blend in with the shadows and tapestries. He pressed a hand against his rapid beating heart.

“You do enjoy skulking around the castle, don’t you?” Leopold said as he started down the hallway.

“My prince, you intend to leave her in there all alone?” Dickens sounded perplexed at the idea.

“I can’t very well hang about while she translates the book, now can I?” he retorted.

“But the library—”

“She will be fine in there,” he interrupted.

He tried not to think about how her beautiful face looked when the parchment and inkwell appeared on the table. Her expression contorted into a mixture of surprise and confusion tinged with fear. He wanted to reassure her that everything was all right, but if he did that, he would have to explain things he was not prepared to explain.

The library was much like the rest of the castle but with its own mysteries and quirks. At times, the books whispered the words from their haunted pages. Other times, they sang melancholy melodies that echoed throughout the large room. And sometimes, without warning, they would fall from the shelves and land on the floor with such a clatter it would wake the dead.

He hoped the books behaved themselves in the presence of the young lady. Not that he could do anything about it—he simply hoped they sensed she was a guest and remain quiet.

At any rate, he suspected hovering around her while she tried to translate, and concentrate was not going to do either of them any good.

“I think I make her nervous,” he added.

“Of course you make her nervous,” Dickens replied. “You’re a prince—”

“Not to her,” he interrupted, halting midway down the corridor. He turned to his old friend. “She doesn’t know who I am.”

A brow lifted in question, wrinkling his pale forehead. “Forgive my impertinence, but I’m sure she can guess who you are. This isn’t exactly a cottage we live in.”

Leopold frowned. It hadn’t occurred to him she would use her deductive reasoning to figure out he was someone of importance. Naturally, she would assume he was part of the nobility, but certainly not from an ancient royal bloodline that had ruled this part of Cassoné for centuries. His family name had fallen into disreputable ruin after the scandal that rocked them to the core. His parents were long gone, and he was cursed to live in his enchanted castle. Hope bloomed like the dusky evening rose crawling along the low stone wall that someday he would find a way to break that curse.

He had almost given up that hope until he saw Isabella carrying the book. It had renewed his faith that, in fact, the curse could be broken before the sands of time finally ran out.

The enchanted hourglass was almost empty. He tried not to think about that these last few months as he watched the glimmering iridescent sands flowing from the top to the bottom.

“She cannot know who I am,” he said, firmly and pointedly at Dickens.

“You intend never to tell her?” he asked, then, clearly shocked by his determined resolve.

“Quite right.” He spun on his heel and headed back down the hallway, leaving Dickens behind. Then, as an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, “And neither will you.”

Dickens fell in step next to him, his long legs having no trouble keeping up with him. “Might I ask what you intend to do to conceal your situation at the full moon? Which, I might add, is tonight, my prince.”

“She’s not staying.” As he said it, a pang of disappointment pierced him. He hadn’t realized how disheartened he was to hear she intended to return to her home before nightfall. “In fact, we must have the carriage ready at dusk to take her back to the town.”

“And tomorrow?”

“The same, if she agrees to return.” He paused and cast a glance back at the library doors on the other end of the hallway.

Perhaps Dickens was correct in that he shouldn’t leave her alone in there for too long. He was also correct in that if he intended to keep his identity a secret, he couldn’t allow her to see him in his true, terrible form.

“Which is something you hope she does,” Dickens said.

Leopold stood rooted in place as he considered this. Yes, of course, he hoped she returned. But a part of him realized he didn’t want her to see what he was when the moon was full and bright in the night sky. For if she did, she wouldn’t look at him the way she did outside the bookshop. As though there was an intensity in her gaze that bound them together. As though a light inside him had ignited, making him come alive with feelings he thought long dead.

Dickens cleared his throat. “My prince?”

“Dickens, perhaps you are correct in that I shouldn’t leave her alone in the library for any length of time. Tea and finger sandwiches seem appropriate, don’t they? And perhaps some sweet treats,” Leopold said.

Dickens cast a glance down at the double doors, where his gaze was firmly fixed.

“I’ll see that it’s done, my prince.”

He clasped his hands in front of him as he headed off to the kitchens to see to his request.

After Leopold left, Bella pulled off her lace gloves and bonnet and got to work. She sat at the table with the candelabra lighting the pages of the opened book before her. When she had trouble seeing the pages and squinted or leaned forward for a better look, the candlesticks moved closer to give her more light. Every time she glanced up at it, it appeared normal. But she was certain it moved closer when she needed it the most.

She pulled a piece of parchment from the stack and slid it to her, then reached for the quill and dipped it into the ink. Across the top, she wrote in her flowing handwriting, the book with no name.

She stared down at her handwriting, recalling the previous text she translated for Lord Vincent. The text she never finished. She thought about the alphabet of roses and thorns that told the tale of the sorceress whose heart was broken by a cruel, spoiled prince. A prince she cursed to live out his days in solitude in the depths of his castle. A castle that, it seemed, was not so different from the one she was currently sitting in.

Funny she remembered that story now as she sat at the table chewing on the end of the quill. Did that story have any correlation to the ancient language she was unable to read in the book with no name?

She reached for the book, then paused. Her hand hovered over the cover with the strange thorns and roses.

Roses and thorns. An alphabet of roses and thorns.

She glanced at the stained-glass window across the room. Roses and thorns.

Thornhurst .

Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be roses and thrones and brambles. As if the symbol meant something. It was all around her. In the stained-glass window. On the low stone wall surrounding the gate. She even spied a vase full of the inky roses in full bloom on a table on the way to the library.

There was some bit of knowledge buried in the deep recesses of her mind. Some scrap of story she could not quite recall. An old fable, perhaps? She shook off the vestiges of that haunting story and opened the book her father gave her.

The language stared back at her. Unreadable in every way.

She glanced back at the green covered tome and pulled it to her. The one with the yellowed pages. She flipped it open. The cover cracked from age. She peered down at the cover page and one word stared back at her.

Hexes.

Hexes? Curses and Cures? What, then, was the blue book he gave her? Curious, she pulled it to her and opened it.

Spells and Incantations.

She shoved back from the table, the chair scraping along the marble floor with a loud squawk. It was such a violent move she knocked it over. It made a loud rapping sound as she stumbled away from the table. Even the candelabra was startled by her sudden movement, the flames flickering and snuffing out, plunging the room in nothing but shade and shadows.

She backed away from the table of books, her hand at her throat.

Leopold gave her those books—what was he trying to make her do with them? How would they help her decipher the language of the book her father gave her?

It was all so confusing and a bit terrifying.

Perhaps coming here was a mistake. Perhaps she should go home and never return.

As the thoughts pounded through her, she heard a soft voice singing. She glanced around, but no one else was in the library. The singing grew louder, as though someone was trying to get her attention, and she realized with some horror there was someone in the library with her.

A ghost?

No, that was silly. Now her frightening thoughts were starting to spiral.

But the singing grew louder, the voice stronger. It sounded like it was coming from one of the shelves.

With her heart pounded a rapid beat, she took a step toward it. Deeper and deeper into the library she went until she found the source of the voice.

It was a book.

With every stanza, the cover and pages flapped in concert with the words.

“It’s…singing,” she said on a rough whisper.

The singing stopped. “Of course, I’m singing, dear child,” the book replied in a falsetto.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Y-you heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you. I’m not deaf.” This time the book sang it in a deeper voice, the cover and pages flapping with its response.

How curious.

Unable to resist, she picked up the book. It was a biography about an opera singer. She thumbed through the pages with interest then replaced it in its place on the shelf.

“Did you not find anything of interest, dear child?” it sang.

She snickered, amused by the response. “Not this time.”

As she started to leave, a belch of mist emitted from one of the books on the other end. Interested, she hurried toward it. As she approached, there was the distinct sound of a train chugging along on a track. She snatched up the book and read the title— History of the Steam Engine. More mist—no, steam!—emitted from between the pages.

Fascinating.

Birdsong came from a book about an aviary. War cries emitted from another book that told the history of a war in a place she had never heard of. Construction sounds came from another describing how castles were built. A howl from a book about wolves got her attention long enough to page through it. And on and on she went, discovering all the peculiar and wonderful—enchanted—books in Leopold’s library.

At last, she found herself standing among the furniture under the stained-glass window and gazed up at it. As she peered at the thorn-ensnared rose, she noticed movement. As though the rose wanted to bloom in full but couldn’t because of the thorny vines constricting it. The silvery thorns themselves seemed to shimmer under the pale light seeping through the colored glass.

When the door to the library opened, she spun around, her heart in her throat. Then surprise took over as she watched Leopold Thornhurst push a polished tea cart into the library, the wheels squeaking as they turned. He halted when he noticed her standing across the room under the stained-glass window.

They stared at each other across the expanse of the room. Her heart beat wildly. And though she could not see his features, those pale brown eyes were quiet distinct in the shadows. There was something inherently wild about them. Something that made her pause and tip her head to the side as she gazed at him and tried to work out where she’d seen eyes like that before.

“Tea, Miss Rinaldi?” he said, his voice echoing in the room.

Without waiting for her reply, he wheeled the cart toward her. When he stopped, he reached for the delicate porcelain teapot and poured the dark brew into one of the cups perched on a matching saucer. The cart also had a tray full of small sandwiches, delectable tiny cakes, biscuits, and scones.

“Did you make any progress?”

She flushed at his question. How could she tell him the truth? That she was ready to bolt from the castle and never return? Then that she was enamored with his odd collection of books.

He handed her the cup. When he did, their fingers brushed. It left a tingling sensation zipping through her. He poured himself a cup and then motioned to the seating area. He perched on the edge of one of the chairs, holding the delicate cup between his large hands.

She hadn’t noticed his hands until then. Perfect, strong hands with long, fine-boned fingers. She took a sip of tea to calm her raging nerves.

“Would you like the truth?” she asked, and her voice was stronger than she expected.

He peered at her, indecision in his eyes, and then lifted one dark brow. It was hard not to notice the rakish look he gave her with his mussed hair, as though he’d been shoving his hand through it. One out-of-place strand fell over his forehead.

“I hired you, so, yes, I would like the truth. Is it a difficult text to translate?”

Bella pressed her lips together as she tried to decide how to answer. It appeared he expected her to tell him she was unable to translate the book when, honestly, she was terrified of the books he’d given her as a resource.

“I haven’t tried yet.” She sipped her tea to keep from telling him more.

“You haven’t?” His voice was even with a hint of curiosity.

“No. Because…” She moved to sit across from him, holding the teacup in her hand as she gazed at him. “Why did you give me those books?”

He looked perplexed. “I’m sorry?”

“Curses and Cures. Spells and Incantation. Hexes,” she said. Even saying the words aloud sent a shiver through her.

His face blanched, but only for a moment. His fingers tightened on the cup as he stiffened, his back ramrod straight.

“Apologies, Lord Thornhurst—”

“I am no lord,” he interrupted. He shot to his feet and dropped the cup back onto the tray.

She snapped her mouth shut, peering at his rigid back. If he was not a lord, then…what was he?

“Your grace?” she tried.

He said nothing as he remained standing there, his stiff back to her. She wasn’t sure if that was the right title of address, either, since he didn’t respond.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “I fail to understand how those books could help me translate mine.”

His shoulders drooped a little—an imperceptible movement that she might have missed if she hadn’t been looking at him. Finally, he turned enough to give her his profile.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Miss Rinaldi.”

It was her turn to stiffen. She held the teacup tight in her hand. Her fingers cramped. “You haven’t?”

He picked up one of the small cakes and placed it on a saucer. She watched intently, expecting him to eat it, but he didn’t. Instead, he brought it over to her and extended it. She took the saucer and balanced it on her knee as he moved back to the cart.

“It will be difficult for you to hear this.”

He leaned against the cart, his hands gripping the edge and his knuckles leeching of color, as if what he was about to say was something horrible. She braced herself.

“I am cursed.”

He said it so softly, she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. Her brows drew together as she kept her gaze on his strained shoulders and the clenched muscles in his back.

“Cursed?” she repeated. A quiver of fear slipped through her.

She wondered what sort of curse but since he didn’t offer more information, it seemed rude to press for more details. Was he cursed to live in this strange, enchanted castle for the rest of his days until it was broken? And how would it be broken?

So many questions floated through her mind.

“Yes.” He spun to face her, his face creased with worry. “If you wish to leave and never return, I understand. If you wish to terminate our agreement, I understand that, too. But…”

His gaze dropped as he moved a little closer. For a moment, she thought he might pause in front of her and drop to a knee, but instead he perched on the opposite chair, clasping his shaking hands in his lap. He was nervous. He was afraid of her reaction, of how she might see him now.

Finally, he lifted his gaze and met hers. She saw deep in them, the desperate hope glittering there.

“But?” she asked, sounding more breathless than she wanted.

“Seeing that book of yours…with the rose and thorns on the cover…I’ve never seen anything like it before in all my travels and all my searching. My last hope was the bookshop in town. And that’s when I met you.”

His face flushed, as though it made him uncomfortable to tell her this.

Though he didn’t say it, she suspected he thought their meeting was kismet. And though she never truly believed in destiny or fate or luck—she believed one made one’s own destiny—she was compassionate enough to understand why he felt this way. Perhaps it was a last hope or desperation that drove him to follow her out of the bookshop.

He continued, “I believe that book is the key to breaking the curse. I apologize for not explaining that to you before. That’s why I gave you those other books. I thought, perhaps, they would aide you in your translation. But perhaps I was wrong.”

Silence stretched between them as she considered his words. She was in no position to turn down a paying job such as this. She thought of her father returning to Port Leclare to sort out the messy affairs of this merchant business. She thought of the potentially empty larder back at Hawthorne Hall if they ran out of money trying to pay for his business expenses. She thought of how Edith, Gerald, and Emmaline depended on her to make sure the household ran smoothly, and all were taken care of.

And that was what made her decision easier.

“Mr. Thornhurst—”

“Leopold, please. Call me Leopold.”

She flushed, the heat pounded through to her cheeks and settled there. She glanced down at the tepid tea and the buttery cake resting on the saucer to hide her blush. In her line of work, she’d been around noble men, but she’d never called them by their given name. Not once. When she reigned in her emotions, she lifted her gaze back to his.

“I will stay and attempt to translate the book.”

When she said it, his face broke into a wide smile. He flopped back in the chair, relief creasing his features as he blew out a breath.

“Thank you, Miss Rinaldi.”

“Bella,” she corrected.

Surprise flickered over his face. She flushed again.

“My friends call me Bella,” she said.

He got to his feet then and walked over to her, dropping to one knee. He held out a hand, waiting for her to accept. Her heart rammed a wild and erratic beat against her chest as she reached for him, placing her hand in his. His warm fingers closed around hers as he tugged her hand closer and pressed a breath of a kiss on the back of her hand.

“I’m honored to call you friend.”

The breath of his words fanned across the back of her hand, making the hairs stand on end and gooseflesh rise. She pulled her hand back as demurely as possible and then held the teacup between both of them. She sipped the now-cold tea.

He got to his feet, then, and backed away a few steps. “I should let you return to work. The carriage will be ready and waiting for you at dusk.”

“Thank you,” she said with a nod.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone once again in the enchanted and mystical library.