Page 26

B ridget and Grenville stood before Alastair’s large oak desk, the atmosphere unnervingly still.

The room had been undisturbed since his passing, yet something was amiss.

The room was too pristine as if someone had meticulously erased every trace of Alastair’s presence.

There was no hint of leather, tobacco, or even the faint scent of his lingering cologne.

Grenville ran a hand over the desktop as he scanned the room. “If he kept his notes close, they should be here. The question is, who got to them first?” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Or perhaps they were never meant to be found.”

Bridget’s eyes narrowed. “Alastair knew he was in danger. If the notes were here, he wouldn’t have left them exposed. He would have hidden them.”

Grenville nodded slowly. “Unless he was forced to show them as proof.”

“Or perhaps,” she quipped, “he gave them something else instead.”

His gaze darkened as he stared at the desk. “That would explain the parchment in his mouth. It wasn’t a message to others, but his punishment.”

Bridget’s thoughts raced. “Whoever took his notes must have planned this carefully. They left behind only these fragments as a grim signature.”

Bridget turned toward the bookshelves, stepping closer to inspect the volumes.

Some were coated in dust while others bore fresh smudges, evidence that someone had been here, sorting and searching.

“What better place to hide pages of notes than between the pages of books?” she mused under her breath.

The quiet between them pulsed with purpose. Standing side by side in the hushed library, Bridget felt the remnants of last night’s closeness settle over her like a familiar, comforting shawl.

“Captain,” she said softly, breaking the silence, “I find that despite all this darkness, I’m grateful to have you by my side.”

Grenville stilled, his gaze settling on hers, the weight of her words sinking in. The past day had been filled with loss, suspicion, and uncertainty, yet here she stood, acknowledging not just their shared burdens but the quiet solace they had found in one another.

His lips curved slightly, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “Captain?” he echoed, stepping closer, his voice gentler now. “I think we’re beyond that. Thomas will do nicely.”

Bridget tilted her head, studying him, as if considering the shift between them. The use of his given name felt like crossing an unseen threshold, one they had been inching toward without fully acknowledging.

A smile, soft but knowing, touched the corners of her lips. “If that is the case, then you must call me Bridget.”

A subtle warmth passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the intimacy the moment carried.

“Very well… Bridget,” he murmured, her name sounding like a prayer.

They lingered in the quiet that followed, a breath between before and after. For all the uncertainty that lay ahead, this, this was certain.

The search continued as they moved to Alastair’s desk drawer. Bridget carefully pulled it open, noting the scratches along the edges, evidence of a hurried, forceful search.

Thomas ran his fingers along the bottom, brushing against something rough.

She paused, watching the crease in his brow and the way his jaw tightened in concentration, a look reminiscent of their earlier battles of wit.

Bridget lent her hand and discovered a torn piece of fabric caught in the splintered wood, dark and delicate like the lining of a coat. “Someone was in a hurry. And they were careless,” she murmured.

Thomas’s expression was grim. “If Alastair hid his notes, why leave them where anyone could find them?”

Before they could probe further, the sound of footsteps in the corridor caused them to turn.

Blackwood loomed in the doorway, his expression controlled yet unreadable.

With a subtle shift, Thomas stepped in front of Bridget, an instinctive move that made her heart flutter, though she masked her reaction.

“Turning over the dead man’s belongings already? How unseemly,” Blackwood remarked, eyeing the papers in Thomas’s hand. His gaze flickered briefly to the open drawer before returning to them.

Bridget stepped forward, meeting his steady eyes. “Then tell me, my lord, what exactly are we to be looking for?”

Blackwood hesitated, his fingers flexing almost imperceptibly. “I know where it was,” he said finally, shrugging as if the answer were trivial. “But where it is now depends on how thoroughly you search.”

Bridget’s pulse quickened. “Who took it?”

Blackwood’s smirk returned, dark and knowing. “Be careful, Lady Bridget. Sometimes, when you dig for secrets, you find things best left buried.”

His parting words sent a ripple of unease through her, confirming that he knew more than he revealed.

“Thomas, why would Blackwood admit he knows where Alastair’s notes were, yet refuse to tell us?” Bridget asked, her tone laced with equal parts frustration and curiosity.

His gaze darkened as he considered the question.

“I suspect he seeks to hold that knowledge as leverage, testing if we’re resourceful enough to uncover the truth on our own.

Perhaps he is conflicted by his own loyalties, or simply put, protecting interests that run deeper than our investigation.

In this dangerous game, he believes it’s wiser to keep such vital information hidden until he’s certain the consequences won’t fall on him, or on any of us. ”

After Bridget’s pointed remark, Thomas reached out and gently squeezed her hand in silent reassurance.

“Let’s not allow his evasiveness to slow us,” he murmured.

“We must resume our search. There are hidden compartments and neglected drawers in this room that might still contain Alastair’s secrets. ”

Bridget nodded, swallowing her frustration. With renewed determination, they returned to their search. Methodically, they began examining every detail, the dusty ledgers, the false bottoms of drawers, even the spines of books lining the shelves that might shelter forgotten pages.

Together, they moved with quiet urgency, each discovery a small victory in their quest to piece together Alastair’s final message before the Order could silence it forever.