Page 13

W hen she had her fill of food and tea, she returned to the table, glancing up at the snuffed-out candelabra. The wicks were cold and dark.

“Light, please?” she asked, her voice timid and quiet.

The wicks flared to life with their blue-white flames, not exactly pushing back the shadows but clinging to them.

She did find it odd that Leopold hadn’t noticed the snuffed-out candles, but then, he seemed distracted by the tea cart and the fact she was hovering near the seating area of the library. The book her father gave her was off to one side. She pulled it toward her and examined the cover. A twinge of familiarity skipped through her as she stared down at it.

Turning, she gazed over her shoulder at the stained-glass window. The rose on the window was almost exactly like the one on the cover of the book.

An eeriness spilled through her as she gaped at the window and then turned back to the book. She traced the outline of the rose with the tip of her finger. What was the connection to the two of them? Were they connected?

Her father stated he bought it from a bookseller, but beyond that he gave her no more information. He traveled a lot, stopping in various ports across the continent and the adjacent one. Perhaps he didn’t even recall where he bought it, but it was worth asking him.

When she opened the book to a random page in the center, it cracked with age. She pushed it under the puddle of light to get a better look at the oddly flowing script that curved down the page. The script that seemed to be intertwined with the runes and symbols that meant…what? She hadn’t a clue.

As she moved the book under the silvery light of the candles, her breath suddenly caught in her throat. The ink shimmered with a low, pulsing sheen, like moonlight across dark waters. Almost as if the letters themselves were alive and breathing. The writing curled across the page in long flowing loops and sharp barbs. Sliding across the page as though it were a living thing. As though it were it were a flower about to bloom. But as the petals tried to unfurl, the thorny barbs snarled them, keeping it from opening. Keeping them from flourishing.

Even as she stared at it long and hard, her talent for translating the words failed her.

Then she noticed something astonishing. One of the swirling loops that seemed to travel across the page wound around one of the runes and in the center of that rune was a letter. Curved at the top. Curved at the bottom.

The letter S?

With excitement burning through her, she reached for a parchment and the quill and ink. She hastily scribbled that first letter in her flowing handwriting.

What was S? A name? Or merely a word?

She placed her finger on the book under the mystical S. The page was warm against the tip of her finger. She followed the scrolling loop to the next rune. Before her eyes, the next letter formed as her heart pounded hard and fast.

H

She quickly wrote that down next to the S.

Her finger moved down the page. When the tip paused at the rune, another letter appeared. And so on and so on. Until she had scribbled down an entire word. She sat back in the chair and stared down at the word she’d written.

Shadows

“What shadows?”

As she said it aloud, the book seemed to whisper the word back to her.

Gooseflesh erupted along her arms and crept up to the base of her neck. A hot tingling sensation was there, piercing through her. It was as though the book heard her and replied.

She continued her moving her finger down the page and writing the letters she saw. Sitting back a second time, her eyes glanced over the two words she’d written.

Shadows stir.

She pressed her lips together. Though she wanted to say the words aloud, she was worried what might reply when she did.

What did shadows stir mean? Was this the beginning of a long, spine-chilling tale? Or was there something else buried within the brambles and thorns of the book’s language? She contemplated this when the library doors opened, catching her attention.

Leopold stood in the shaft of light from the hallway. His elongated shadow splashed across the marble floor. He seemed to pause there for a long moment, but she was unable to see his features as he was nothing more than a silhouette. She blinked, trying to focus, and realized she was squinting at the pages of the book for so long in the dimness, her eyes were gritty and tired.

“Bella?” he queried.

The doors banged closed behind him. As he moved toward her, his face came into focus. Worry and concern creased his handsome features. He paused near the table, his gaze flickering from her to the open book in front of her, to the parchment on which she scribbled words.

“It’s incredible.” She breathed the words in a roughened whisper, as though she did not want to disturb the book or garner its attention.

“You found something?”

His worry was replaced by hope as he moved closer. He leaned on the table next to her, his body heat radiating toward her. When he did, she caught his scent. He smelled like winter and wildfire—wood smoke and something sharper beneath it, like frost and sorrow. It caught her off guard, that scent. It was him. Of course, it was.

She glanced up at him, but his pale brown gaze was focused on her hastily scrawled handwriting.

“You were able to translate this?” he asked.

“Only the two words.”

“ Shadows stir ,” he read.

And when he did, the book whispered back something that neither of them understood. The faint whisper was still there, curling from the pages like breath brushing the edges of her mind. She shivered. As soon as the ghostly whisper emitted from the book, he jumped back, his eyes wide.

“I think the book understands,” she said. “It did the same thing when I read it aloud.”

“It…understands?”

She nodded. “And when you say the words from the book…well, it seems as though it responds. But I don’t understand what it’s saying.”

He stared at the open book as though it were a foreign object he’d never seen before. As though it were something wicked. Something dangerous. Something threatening . Uncertainty was in his eyes as he continued to peer at it, not moving, not speaking. His mouth formed a thin line.

Finally, he shook himself from his trance and straightened, moving away from her. The moment he did, he took his warmth with him. A weak smile creased his lips.

“You made good progress today.”

“I did. I think I can get a little more done—”

“It’s nearly dusk,” he said, interrupting her.

“Oh.”

She breathed the word as disappointment flickered through her. She wasn’t ready to stop translating. She folded the parchment with her scribbled handwriting in half and placed it in the center of the pages as a marker, then flipped the book closed.

“The carriage is waiting for you outside,” he said.

“Thank you.” She scooped the book off the table and cradled it against her chest. “Given that it’s nearly dark, I wonder if your carriage could take me as far as the gates of Hawthorne?”

He gave her a long, quiet look as though contemplating whether to agree. He nodded, “Yes, of course. You wouldn’t want to be walking home alone in the dark.”

She blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes, thank you.”

Leopold made a motion to the door. “May I escort you to the carriage?”

Her gaze lingered on his handsome face. “I’d like that.”

She pulled on her lace gloves, then her bonnet, tying it under her chin. As she headed for the door, he fell in step beside her. They walked in silence from the library down the long hallway with the oil paintings with their watchful eyes following them. From there, he led her to the front door of the castle where Dickens stiffly waited with his head held high.

“Will you be returning tomorrow?” Leopold asked, eyeing the book she still cradled against her chest.

“I hope to,” she said. “But things are…unsettled and I may need to remain at Hawthorne.”

“Unsettled? Is everything all right?”

She flashed a smile, realizing she might have said too much. “Yes, of course, it’s just that my father was called back to Port Leclare on business and he looks to me to run the household while he’s away.”

“Ah,” he said. “I didn’t realize your father was in Port Leclare.”

“He’s a merchant,” she heard herself say. And before she could stop the words from flowing, she said, “A few of his ships were destroyed.”

Concern creased his face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She wanted to smack her forehead for revealing that information to this almost stranger. She didn’t know much about Leopold. She certainly should not be telling him their private family business.

“I should be going, your grace.” She dipped a curtsy and turned toward the door.

As she did, Dickens pulled it open. She headed into the balmy night air and climbed in the carriage, relieved to be putting distance between the dashing Leopold Thornhurst, his ghostly castle, and his stern-faced butler.

Leopold watched her bolt through the door as if her dress was on fire and climb into the waiting carriage. The footman closed the door with a snap behind her. He stepped across the threshold of the door and made a motion to the driver to catch the man’s attention.

“Take her to Hawthorne Hall. Make sure she arrives safely.”

“As you say, prince.” He gave a nod as he took up the reins.

He winced at the title but was hopeful Bella didn’t hear. The driver turned the carriage and away they went, clattering down the gravel drive toward the road that led them off the castle grounds.

Dickens was at his side then. His stoic facade firmly in place on his face.

“Why did she call you your grace ?” he asked.

Leopold pressed his lips together, trying to decide how to answer. She called him that because of his own stubbornness that refused to tell her the truth about him. That he was a prince. That the blood running through his veins was from an ancient royal line that was all but extinct. All except him.

“I told her I was no lord.” He hadn’t meant to say it in a haughty, insulted tone.

Dickens sniffed derision. “An insult, of course. Much beneath your stature. But, again, why your grace ?”

“She assumes I’m a duke. I allowed her to think so.”

Truthfully, he didn’t want to be a duke or a prince or a king or any title. He wanted to be a man. A man who was looked at by a woman like her. But she only looked at him like that because she didn’t know what he truly was. If she knew the truth about him, she would find him repugnant and she would never return with her book.

He needed her to return with her book. He needed her to translate the rest of the words. To see if there was a way to break the curse within those yellowed, aged pages. But what surprised him the most was he needed to see her sitting in his library every day, scratching away with the quill looking lovely and distracted.

“Rather than tell her the truth, I see. Do you think she’ll return, my prince?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Find out about her father’s merchant business, Dickens. I want to know everything. Who he is. What he sells. How many ships were destroyed. Everything. She mentioned Port Leclare. Start there.”

“As you say, my prince.”

“And I want to know before morning,” Leopold added.

“Of course, you do.” There was the lilt of annoyance in his voice as he stepped inside the castle.

He suspected there was more to the story than what Bella told him. He intended to find out.

He cast a glance up at the sky. Night was falling. The sky was turning a deep indigo. Soon, the full moon would rise. A sharp edginess stabbed through him.

“Come, my prince. ‘Tis almost moonrise,” Dickens called.

He was right. He stepped through the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him. He hoped this night would be a calm one. But judging by the way he felt deep inside, he suspected it would not go that way.