Catherine stood just outside the library doors, her hands clasped around a steaming cup of tea that had gone cold while she issued early instructions to the staff.
The scent of lemon polish and aged paper greeted her as she stepped into the room, now carefully arranged for the day’s formal presentations. Lamplight glowed over polished tables, each one designated for specific scholars. The tall windows had been left unshuttered to provide the best natural light for mapwork and fine handwriting.
She made a quiet circuit through the space, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Pens, inkwells, spare quills, and clean blotters were stationed at each place. A fresh tray of coffee had already been brought in, and soon she would have to send for more.
The scholars were already hard at work. Some exchanged pleasantries, while others offered merely nods and settled quickly to their work.
William had claimed the central table beneath the portrait of the third Earl of Penwood. Ancient texts, their spines fragile with age, lay open before him. Catherine paused to refill his cup.
“Thank you, Catherine,” he said without looking up, his pen continuing across the page in a fluid, elegant script. “The binding on the Tacitus is quite fine. Better than the copy I worked from in Rome.”
Catherine smiled.
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said. “That volume belonged to the late earl of Penwood. He kept it wrapped in oilcloth for years before having it rebound.”
William gave a gentle nod.
“He was a wise man, Marcus’s father,” he said. “It is a fine tradition to preserve.” He glanced briefly at her then, his kind eyes twinkling. “You are keeping us all in good order. That is no easy task with this many competing egos.”
Catherine smiled, pondering the odd, foreboding chill that followed William’s harmless, humorous statement.
“I have observed that scholars, no less than footmen, prove most peaceable once one understands their particular ways,” she said, drawing a soft chuckle from him before she continued on.
James had claimed a wide table near the south windows. A series of maps had been unfurled and anchored with polished stones. Eleanor leaned beside him, pointing to a section with one hand while holding a well-worn field journal in the other.
“This ridge aligns with the old road system,” she said. “The amphora fragments came from just beyond it.”
James pointed at a specific spot on the map.
“That puts them in relation to the garrison post,” he said. “But not Roman manufacture, see? The glaze is local.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Which supports a theory of Celtic-Roman trade persistence well into the fourth century,” she said.
Catherine approached with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Might I refill either of yours?” she asked.
James grinned.
“You might save us from losing all sense of time,” he said.
Eleanor smiled at her.
“Catherine, you have created an atmosphere that rivals any university library,” she said.
Catherine returned her smile as she poured their coffee.
“That is high praise, Eleanor,” she said. “I shall endeavour not to disappoint.”
She moved next to Charles and Sophia, stationed near a smaller table with velvet-lined trays of brass and iron fragments. Charles had arranged a sequence of spearheads and buckles in what appeared to be formation rows.
“By size, then by function,” he said, more to himself than to Sophia, who nodded as though he had directly addressed her.
“And cross-referenced by provenance,” she said, holding up a sheet of careful notations.
Catherine observed in silence for a moment, noting the precision with which Sophia catalogued each item. Her hands moved with practised speed, though her manner remained composed.
