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C olorful light from the stained-glass window splashed across the book’s yellowed pages, giving them a multi-hued illumination. The only sound was that of Bella’s quill as she dipped the tip in the inkwell and then scratched out her translations on the parchment. Silence and the musty smell of old books were her constant companions this late afternoon.

She was lost in the ancient manuscript with an extraordinary alphabet of roses and thorns that no one else was able to translate or read. She, however, had a gift for it. Her whole life, she could examine foreign writings and understand the concealed words within their secret scripts.

Father called it her magical gift.

She turned the page of the book, her gaze skimming across it. Her mind translated the climax of the story she’d been writing. It was the tale of a wicked enchantress and the prince who caused her heartbreak. She cursed him to exist in isolation within his castle’s dark and lonely confines. His eyes would never again behold the sun, for its light would be his ruin.

Bella sat a moment, staring at the words and thinking about the tale. It was a heartbreaking tale. Surely, it was fiction and not a tale of truth. She could not imagine being alone for all of her remaining days, locked away in a castle without the sunshine to warm her cheeks.

A faint tap at the library door interrupted her thoughts. She looked up as the door swung open and the butler stepped inside the library, his hand on the knob of the oversized door.

“Hello, Archie,” she greeted.

He winced only a little at the nickname she’d given him. “Miss Rinaldi, his lordship asked if you would like afternoon tea.”

She and Archie—Archibald was his proper name—were on a first name basis since coming to Lord Vincent’s extravagant manor in the seaside town during the past few weeks. Port Leclare was home to some of the richest, fattest nobles in the northern realm of Cassoné. And some of those rich nobles liked to collect ancient works that required translation.

That’s where she managed to help them—for a price, of course. She made a handsome sum for each book she translated and had garnered quite the reputation in the sleepy seaside village. Her father was a merchant and was often away on business, which left her to her own devices most of the time. She started translating for fun and then realized the nobles were happy to pay her for the services.

Sometimes it took her days to translate. Sometimes weeks. And always she spent the time in their extraordinary personal libraries in their mansions where she was pampered by their staff and treated as though she, herself, were royalty.

“I would love afternoon tea,” she said.

“Very good, my lady.” He nodded and closed the door.

She settled into the plush, oversized chair. Her fingers were ink stained. She didn’t mind. Her penmanship, she had been told, was some of the best ever seen. The Port Leclare General Library often requested she scribe for them when she had a free moment, but that was volunteer work. She much preferred her work as a paid scribe and translator.

It must be after midday since it was time for afternoon tea. Father would arrive in port later that evening, returning from a long voyage across the sea to another continent, Cappadocia, where he planned to sell his wares and buy textiles to bring back to their small sliver of land. Though her father, Enzo, was not a noble, he was treated as such. His shop on the wharf was among the most popular selling the latest fabrics to the local dressmaker for their fine gowns. Everyone in town knew the Rinaldi’s which made it quite easy for Bella to find work as a translator in the port.

The door creaked open again, and the soft scent of Earl Grey drifted into the room as Archie wheeled in the tea cart. The porcelain cups clinked and rattled with each tiny bump, a delicate, familiar sound that made her smile. Her eyes immediately locked onto her favorite finger sandwiches—fresh cucumber slices glistening on buttery bread—and next to them, the tiny lemon cakes, their golden tops shimmering under a light dusting of powdered sugar, sending the tangy sweetness wafting toward her.

Lord Vincent Blackwell entered next.

He was slender and tall, his dark hair streaked with white at the temples, giving him an air of wisdom and experience. He wore a fine three-piece suit, the kind that spoke of class and sophistication, and his black shoes gleamed as if polished for this moment. Time etched lines into his face, proving a long and full life. She couldn’t help but feel the weight of all he had seen and done in a life of luxury. His wife passed away several years ago from consumption. They never had children.

“That will be all, Archibald. Thank you.”

Archie bowed low and then left the room, closing the door behind him. Lord Vincent poured two cups of tea.

“How is the manuscript coming along?” he asked. He dropped in a lump of sugar in each cup.

Bella suspected his visit was to check on her progress and she was right. “I should be finished soon. Only a few more pages or so left to transcribe.”

He handed her one of the cups. “Will you sit with me?” He gestured to the sitting area on the other side of the room.

“Of course.”

She took the cup from him and rose from the desk, leaving her papers and the book behind. Lord Vincent’s private library ranked among the best she’d seen in her line of work. Bookshelves lined the walls, soaring to the twenty-foot ceiling. One end of the room had a desk. That’s where she liked to work. Next to it, the colorful window that let in shafts of colored light. That was her favorite.

On the other end of the room, the wall of windows overlooked the south lawn that was always immaculate. The sitting area had two sofas facing each other. To the right and left of the sofas were two oversized wing-backed chairs. In the middle, a large table hosting a small candelabra. She imagined it lit in the late evening, giving off a warm, inviting glow to the sitting area.

He took one of the sofas. She sat across from him. For a moment, she thought he seemed disappointed she did not sit next to him.

“Tell me about the rose and thorn language you’ve been translating.” He sipped his tea.

“It’s a fascinating story about a powerful sorceress who fell in love with a prince who broke her heart.”

He lifted a dark brow at that. “Fascinating. The gentleman I purchased the book from didn’t know what it was about.”

“It’s a sad story, really,” she said. “With a terrible ending.”

“How does it end?” he asked.

“A curse dooms the prince to a solitary life, locked away in his castle.” She sipped her tea.

That seemed to have struck a nerve with him. He placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“That sounds horrid,” he said.

“It’s terribly sad,” she agreed with a nod.

“Miss Isabella…” The way her name rolled off his tongue sent warning bells clanging in her mind. He clasped his hands together and gave her a weak smile. “I cannot tell you how I’ve enjoyed having you here these last few weeks.”

Her fingers tightened on the cup handle. “Have you? I’ve been here in the library the whole time. We’ve hardly seen each other.”

A small smile slipped across his face. “Yes, I know. And a pity that. Perhaps you would like to dine with me?”

Her heart rammed hard against her chest. Dine with him? Lord Vincent? She knew where this was going, and she had to stop it before it got out of hand. He was much too old for her.

“I do thank you for the invitation, my lord, but I’m afraid I cannot. My father is due to return this evening. I need to be home to greet him.” She placed the cup on the table in front of her and rose.

“Oh, perhaps another time then,” he suggested.

She cut a glance at the desk with her scattered papers and the still open book. “Perhaps. I’ll return tomorrow and finish the translation.”

“Of course.” He got to his feet.

She headed for the door, and he followed, reaching past her to open it for her. As she passed by him, he placed a hand on her arm.

“A moment, please,” he said, his voice low.

Stopping abruptly, her heart pounded in her chest. She hated having to wave off the men who wanted to court her. She was not interested in courting anyone, for none of the men in the port city were of an interest to her.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I do not know how to say this, Miss Isabella, but…I find you to be in my thoughts more and more and—”

“I do thank you for that, my lord, but I must tell you straightaway I cannot reciprocate any feelings you might have for me.”

He blinked, surprise evident on his face. She rushed on.

“I have learned that it’s best to say my feelings up front, so that there is no misunderstanding later. While I do appreciate your kind thoughts and your offer of dinner, I must make it clear I’m here for work and work only, my lord. I do hope you understand that.”

He swallowed hard then, his throat working. “I do, of course, my lady. Thank you for your candor.”

She dipped a quick curtsy. “Good night, my lord.”

She hurried from the library. At the front door, Archibald waited. When he saw her coming, he opened it.

“Leaving, miss?”

“Yes.”

Archie, of course, sensed her departure and was ready for her. Her wrap was in his hand. He handed it to her, along with her gloves. She pulled on the gloves first, then took the wrap—a silk shawl with fringe—and draped it about her shoulders.

“Good night, Archie.” She dipped a curtsy.

“Good night, miss. Do travel home safe.” He gave a nod of his head as he held the door open for her.

With that, she hurried out into the late afternoon and headed for home.