“She was a hellion,” Lydia replied, a reluctant fondness creeping into her voice. “A magnificent one who loved me dearly.”
They wandered through a cramped study filled with ceramic animals and journals, a morning room washed in pale light and dry ferns, and a nursery that was oddly free of dust.
At last, they reached the library.
The oak doors swung wide, releasing air preserved like amber. Shelves groaned under the weight of leather, cloth, and gilded spines. Sunlight fractured through warped panes, spilling bands across the floor. At the far end, two navy silk chairs framed a table, staged as if awaiting players.
Lydia spun slowly, awe softening her features. She pulled a book at random, its pages thick with annotations—some in her aunt’s hand, others frantic and unfamiliar.
Maximilian stepped further into the room. He paused at the window, then looked at Lydia, as if to anchor her to reality.
She drifted to a portrait. Men in rows, one woman, dark-haired, eyes sharp as glass. The tilt ofher mouth, the stubborn brow—it was Lydia, centuries removed. She touched the painted cheek.
“She could be your twin,” Maximilian murmured.
Lydia shook her head. “She is braver. See how she challenges the painter?”
“You do the same,” he said.
She laughed, softer now. “Perhaps. I have had better teachers.”
They stood in silence. For once, lineage felt like a challenge rather than a burden.
Lydia lifted a book and read aloud:“There is no truth but what we choose to believe.”She met Maximilian’s gaze and found not judgment but admiration.
“Do you believe you belong here?” he asked.
She closed the book. “I do now.”
The library dimmed as daylight faded, shadows stretching across shelves and rugs. Lydia wandered its aisles, her boots soft against the boards, the quiet broken only by the sigh of old leather.
In the far corner, a writing desk stood slightly askew. Scuffed and ink-stained, it held a certain pride. Lydia tugged at the drawers: quills worn to nubs, receipts foxed with age—nothing more. The lowest drawer exhaled varnish and a hint of violets. Odd—the side panel’s grain didn’t match. Shepressed along the seam and felt a click. Her pulse quickened. A hidden catch.
The panel yielded, revealing a slim portfolio tied with a crimson ribbon. Lydia held it cautiously, then untied the bow and drew out the contents.
Maximilian’s shadow filled the doorway. “Find something?” he asked, crossing swiftly to stand close enough that his presence warmed her spine.
She lifted the folder, excitement sparking in her eyes. “A cache of letters.”
She read the first letter aloud:
My dearest L
She hesitated, glancing at him. His raised brow urged her on. The handwriting was unmistakably her aunt’s.
Evidence is power. They will try to frighten you. Never forget you are a Montague.
Lydia swallowed and reached for another. Addressed ‘The Lady of the House,’ the words pressed into the page:
Your cousin has been here. The sealed rooms hold what he fears most. Do not trust the solicitor—he is a pawn. The true will lies where only boldness may find it. Trust only yourself and the one you love.
She looked up. Maximilian’s expression revealed nothing, but she sensed his mind arranging pieces like chessmen.
A final letter, wax-sealed in blue, lay waiting. Shebroke it open:
The debts are not just coin but spirit. The truth of the inheritance rests in the east wing. Take the key and trust no kin.
Lydia exhaled as if the air were dangerous. Maximilian’s hand settled on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. “You have your answer.”
