Page 22

Callista had done more praying than book binding over the last two hours.

Praying for Mr. Lightfoot, the doctor, and even Mr. Griffin.

Distracted by her concern for Mr. Lightfoot, she hadn't trusted herself to tool any of the leather, so she'd cut book board instead.

The simple task required less concentration, but she'd still managed to mismeasure a couple of the pieces.

She'd trim the boards down later to use on smaller volumes, so it was no great tragedy, but it still irked her inner perfectionist.

Thankfully, Mrs. Potter stopped by the library to update her on Mr. Lightfoot's condition after the doctor left, assuring her that all was well and that he was expected to make a full recovery.

The good news cheered her heart, but it failed to clear her mind.

In fact, it worsened her distraction. For without her friend's injury to worry over, her mind turned to a different injured gentleman.

One whose wounds stretched beneath the surface and couldn't be tended by the local physician.

Callista sighed as she released the bladed arm of the board shear, then wiped her moist palms across the front of her apron.

She needed to quit thinking about her employer in such intimate terms. She'd been hired to bind books, not to bind the hidden wounds of a man far above her station.

Yet hadn't God called his people to do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith?

If she could help Mr. Griffin find peace in his circumstances, shouldn't she seek ways to do so?

God also called his people not to think of themselves more highly than they ought, and it could very well be her pride that made her think she had the power to help him. Or perhaps selfishness—seeking an excuse to deepen their interactions.

She couldn't deny that she was drawn to Everett Griffin.

And not just in a pure-hearted, altruistic way.

Her heart leapt each time he entered the library.

Her gaze sought his at the dinner table.

She didn't simply listen to him when he spoke, she hung on his words, caring far more about his thoughts and opinions than her position warranted.

She longed to impress him with her artistry and to be the one who made him smile.

She wanted him to desire her company the way she desired his.

Because she was developing feelings for the man.

And wasn't that the height of foolishness?

She'd only be at Manticore Manor for another three weeks, four at most. If by some miracle Mr. Griffin did come to view her with some affection, that wouldn't change the facts.

When she completed the final book cover, she would return to her father and assist him at the shop.

Mr. Griffin would remain here, taking rambling walks with Spartacus and hiding from a world who recoiled from his scars.

Even if he chose to give up his reclusive habits, his parents would never approve of him marrying a woman like her.

Poor, outspoken, and completely ignorant of societal rules and expectations.

Yet, their growing friendship need not lead to something romantic.

Callista straightened her shoulders and did her best to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment the realization wrought.

Her future might not align with his, but she still longed for him to have the most joyful future possible.

One filled with friends and family, where the cobwebs of old pains and regret had been swept clean.

She was rather handy with a broom. Perhaps she could help rid his soul of some of those cobwebs before she left.

The assurance of his happiness would make her own easier to grasp.

Having sorted things out, Callista refocused on the project at hand and lined up a new piece of book board atop the base of the shear and raised the bladed arm to make the straight edge cut.

"Miss Rosenfeld?"

Callista's hand froze midair as she sucked in a quiet breath.

It really was quite unfair of him to barge his way into her attention again when she'd just worked so hard to push him into the background.

Yet, the predictable leap of her heart at the sound of his voice made it clear that all the logic and planning in the world wouldn't curb her pleasure at being in his presence.

Determined to conduct herself in a professional—and definitely not besotted—manner, she steadied her hand and finished her cut before turning to face him.

"Yes?"

Her gaze unerringly found the vivid blue of the eye not hidden by the patch.

His eye really was the most extraordinary color.

Almost turquoise. Yet the color wasn't what had her pulse picking up speed, it was the vulnerability glowing from its depths.

She'd seen kindness, concern, embarrassment, and plenty of anger.

But she'd never seen him nervous. It tugged on her heart in a way that had her moving toward him with hand outstretched before she even realized she'd taken a step.

"What is it? Has Mr. Lightfoot—"

"No. Ray is fine. He's resting. I just . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and dropped his gaze to the floor. "You asked me a question before the doctor arrived, and I didn't give you an answer." He lifted his chin and shyly met her gaze.

Callista's heart pounded so hard, she longed for a chair back or table to steady herself. With none in her immediate vicinity, she settled for widening her stance slightly and hoping her knees held.

Her question had been far too personal. She'd realized that about five minutes after he'd left the library.

She should retract it. Keep a proper distance between them.

But her heart wouldn't let her. She longed to know this man.

Deeply and personally. Not simply to feed the attraction she felt toward him, but because she sensed that if he opened the door to her, it would be easier for him to open the door to others.

It would give him freedom to face the world as himself and not a man cloaked in mystery and scandal.

So instead of hiding behind her own wall of safe propriety, she took her courage in hand and opened the gate, praying he wouldn't close it in her face.

"Do you have an answer for me now?"

"I . . . ah . . . There's about an hour left of good light . . . If you're still interested . . . I could show you some of my paintings."

Yes! She managed to keep the gleeful cry in her head and away from her tongue as she responded with more decorum.

"I would like that very much."

He smiled, and her heart flipped with the wild abandon of windblown book pages.

He offered her his arm as she imagined a gentleman would do for a lady at a ball or when taking a stroll through a manicured garden.

She slid her fingers into the crook of his elbow, her breathing growing slightly ragged at the contact.

It didn't help matters that she felt a shiver course through him as well when her hand slid over his sleeve.

Hearing Mrs. Potter talk, Callista expected her employer to be quite accustomed to escorting women about, yet he reacted to her touch as if it were an entirely new experience—one that left him as shaken as it did her.

The observation did nothing to strengthen her knees as she departed the library on his arm.

When they reached the stairs, he stepped aside and gestured for her to ascend ahead of him.

Strange that she should miss the feel of his arm so keenly after such a brief connection, yet it seemed she'd acquired a craving for his touch.

A rather imprudent development, to be sure, but one she found little motivation to dismantle.

At the third-floor landing, Callista pressed her back toward the wall so that Mr. Griffin could take the lead in entering the studio. This was a sacred space, and she wanted to honor his gift by taking nothing for granted.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned the knob, but the door opened, and they both stepped inside.

Large windows lined three sides of the studio, flooding the oversized room with late afternoon light.

The tangy smells of paint and turpentine tickled her nose, and her shoe heels echoed loudly against the wooden floorboards.

A worktable of sorts stood in the center of the room, covered with paint tubes, small jars of pigment powder, a variety of brushes, and an assortment of palettes bearing smears of colors.

A stained smock draped over one corner of the table near a crate of what appeared to be blank canvases stretched over wooden frames.

Her companion said nothing as she walked deeper into the room, so she continued her exploration in silence.

Four easels formed a U shape in front of the back wall.

Her gaze shied away from the one at the front right.

She'd glimpsed it the last time she'd been in this room and was too embarrassed to give more than a fleeting perusal.

The one behind it proved much more welcoming.

The rose. Fragile yet beautiful. Intricate details.

So lifelike, she could practically feel the softness of the scattered petals against her skin.

She wanted to study it more closely, but a stronger impulse drew her away.

The lure of the yet unexplored paintings on the other side of the studio.

Leaving the rose with a silent vow to return soon, Callista veered to the left.

The first canvas was unfinished, the bottom third untouched save for thin, charcoal markings sketching out what looked to be a hillside.

A single tree stood atop the hill. An oak.

Tall and sturdy, though its limbs were gnarled and scarred.

At first, she marveled at the intricate details of the leaves and the bark and the shading of a sunset in progress in the sky behind the branches.

However, when she shifted her attention from the individual brush strokes to the picture as a whole, a heaviness settled over her heart.

The dark color palette emphasized the shadows cast by the setting sun, but something else panged within her breast. It took a moment for her to figure out what it was, but when she did, her eyes grew misty.

The tree stood alone. Strong and proud in isolation.

She felt him watching her, could sense his apprehension as she examined his work.

It took great courage for an artist to reveal an unfinished, imperfect project.

She owed him the same gift of vulnerability, so she turned to him and let him see the rawness of her reaction.

He stood a few paces behind her and to the right, and her chest ached at the vision he presented.

The solitary oak, strong and proud but alone.

No more.

She stretched out her arm to him, her hand open.

He hesitated then slowly clasped her hand.

She smiled and drew him near, determined to banish his loneliness, at least for the short time they had together.

Neither of them said a word, but palms pressed together in silent communion as they moved to the second painting.

Another tree. Only this one was not alone.

Several others circled behind it in the background, their details blurred and indistinct in contrast to the lifelike starkness of the tree in the foreground.

She didn't recognize the genus. Perhaps an elm?

What she did recognize was the jagged bolt of lightning slashing through a dark, stormy sky to spear the tree like a fiery javelin.

The bolt split the trunk in two, leaving it charred, broken, and hollow.

Raw pain emanated from the brush strokes, but the hollowness depicted hurt her heart the most. It must have been one of the first pieces he'd painted after his injury.

She squeezed his hand tight as a tear slid down her cheek.

She wiped away the moisture as she moved to the painting of the rose.

He'd chosen such a dark palette of colors.

Muted browns, reds, and greens filled the foreground.

A single, faded rose stood in a vase atop a small table situated near a window.

The flower had turned its face toward the sun, but not even the light had been able to halt its withering.

Fallen petals formed a lopsided pile in front of the slender vase.

The stem drooped, its neck bowed as if beneath an invisible weight.

One petal remained attached, its edges browned and wrinkled, a mere shadow of its former glory.

Yet a beam of sunshine poured through the window, bathing the flower in light.

Welcome warmth banished the shadows of death and sorrow, infusing the image with hope.

He hadn't given the viewer a glimpse of what lay beyond the window, but Callista imagined a beautiful garden filled with rose bushes in bloom.

Roses ready to bring cheer and sweet perfume to the shadowed nook.

She thought to bypass the final painting, her cheeks heating as she recalled the subject matter on that particular canvas.

However, Mr. Griffin resisted when she tried to cross to the small table and chairs at the back of the room.

He tugged on her hand and drew her to stand before the unfinished portrait of the woman she saw in the mirror every day.

"Do you see what is missing in this one?"

His quiet murmur rumbled through her, stirring enough interest to overcome the awkwardness of viewing herself through his eyes.

"Missing?" She peered at the portrait, not looking at the face pictured there but at the overall design.

There was something different about this painting.

It dawned on her slowly, like the sun pushing past the horizon in early morning.

Pinks, whites, and cheerful yellows had replaced the shadowy hues of the other paintings.

Instead of brokenness and grief and isolation, this painting spoke of joy and light.

The woman in the painting smiled, her eyes alight with laughter.

In truth, it was so different from the others that, had it not been housed in the same studio, she would not have guessed that the same artist composed them all.

"Pain," she whispered. "I don't see your pain."