He waves at the book. “Open it, then.”
I step a little closer. “Roland the monk. He was amongst the first to bring Christianity to Cornwall, wasn’t he?”
He’s watching me closely, something playing over his face. “He was, indeed. But he was a singular man. His eyes were not closed by his religion. Rather, they were open to the other world.”
“Other world?”
He blinks as if coming to from a dream. “The magic world,” he says calmly. He opens the cover, the leather creaking with a sound that never fails to make my heart light. He opens the book, and on the title page is a portrait of a monk, and next to the beautiful drawing, written in tiny letters, is the name Roland.
I exclaim and step next to him. This close, I can feel the heat from his body and smell his warm scent. “But that’s not possible,” I breathe. “There are no self-portraits of him.”
“Noknownportraits,” he corrects me. “And this was not a self-portrait.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe this. I’ve never heard there was a portrait of Roland. Who was the artist?”
His lip quirks. “I believe a friend of his drew this.” His eyes are fastened on the rough sketch of a little man sitting on some rocks. Whoever the artist was, they were talented. They've captured the man’s vivacity. He looks like a cherub with his full, round face and a tonsure surrounded by mousy curls. His eyes are creased in happiness, his cheeks red.
“He looks jolly,’ I say, hovering over the page. The smell of old parchment is heavy in my nostrils, and I inhale greedily. “Like a pigeon.”
“Ah, he was a most engaging and curious man.”
I glance at him. “Pardon?”
He blinks. “What?”
I chuckle. “You almost sound like you knew him.”
“Do I? But that is impossible, yes?” I nod, and he pats my shoulder. “He was the subject of much of my learning.”
“Oh, did you do a dissertation on him?”
“You could say that,” he says gravely, but his eyes are twinkling. His hand stays on my shoulder—a warm weight as I draw closer to the book. “You like learning?” he asks.
I look up to see his gaze fixed on me in open fascination. “Oh yes,” I say. “I’m actually a qualified librarian, but it doesn’t pay much, so I took a job with a research institute a few years ago.”
“But that isn’t what you want to do?” His gaze seems to sear into me, burning through all the past layers of rejection and the years of making do, until it reaches my deepest self, who is happiest curling up with books.
“I actually do really enjoy research. It’s a bit like playing hide and seek with facts and words. Although, to be honest, I’d be happiest just reading all day. Unfortunately, it doesn’t pay the bills.”
He brightens. “Then you must avail yourself of my library while you are here, Cary.”
Has he forgotten I’m going in an hour or so? I stare at him. “Just like that?”
“Of course.”
“But you hardly know me.” I look at the shelves and my eyes widen, my breath coming short. “Oh my god, is that Shakespeare’s First Folio?”
He nods solemnly. “One of the original seven-hundred-fifty copies.”
“How is that possible?” I drift closer to the shelves, my eyes running down them. “Bloody hell, that’s theCodex of Leicester.”
“Leonardo da Vinci was a very entertaining man.”
“But they’re absolutely priceless. I could steal them. You don’t know me at all, and you’d let me loose in here?”
“Loose? You are not a horse.” His head cocks, a curious look on his face. “You could not steal from me, Cary.”
“And why is that?”
