“They’re books. They’re meant to be read.”
“But they’re—some of these are first editions—”
“All the more reason to handle them properly.” He moves to stand beside me, pulling down a leather-bound volume. “This is a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. 1813. We brought several of the rarer volumes over from England for the duration of the campaign. Mother thought they’d complement the exhibition.”
My eyes widen. “That’s over two hundred years old.”
“Two hundred and thirteen, to be exact.” He holds it out to me. “Go ahead.”
I take it like it’s made of glass, cradling it in both hands, and for a moment I forget about everything, about Joseph and Glenda and the ring in my pocket and the fact that I’m standing in a room with a man whose cologne is doing unreasonable things to my ability to think clearly. For this one moment, it’s just me and this book and two hundred years of history resting in my palms.
“My father believed books should be loved, not just collected,” Veil continues. “He read every single volume in the collection at least once.”
“Even the ones in...is that Latin?”
“Especially those. He was a bit of a scholar.” He pauses. “Do you read?”
“Everything,” I say. “Anything. I’m not picky.” I look up at him, and something in his expression makes me bold enough to add, “My mom always says that reading is the cheapest way to travel. To live a thousand lives.”
“Your mother sounds wise.”
“She is.” The mention of my mom makes something soften in my chest. “She writes me letters. Every Sunday. From Johannesburg.”
“Johannesburg?” He sounds genuinely curious. “That’s quite a distance.”
“She’s a social worker there. Has been for years.” I carefully close the book and hand it back to him. “She says that in her line of work, you see people with nothing who still have everything that matters.”
I’m not looking at him as I say this. I’m looking at the shelves, at the books, at the spines with their gold lettering, because talking about my mom always makes me a little raw, and I don’t trust myself to look at Veil right now without revealing more than I want to.
“The letters remind me of that,” I continue, my voice softer than I intend. “That words on paper last. That some things are worth the time and care.”
The silence that follows feels loaded, but I don’t know with what.
“Come here,” Veil says after a moment. “Let me show you the real collection.”
I follow him to the glass display case on the far wall, and he unlocks it and begins showing me the pens his father spent decades acquiring, each one with a story, each one precious in ways that have nothing to do with price tags. I listen, and I ask questions, and I forget to be nervous, forget to be guarded, because this is something I understand. The value of craftsmanship. The weight of history. The love someone pours into collecting something beautiful, piece by piece, over a lifetime.
He hands me a 1900 Waterman, and I examine the intricate chasing on the barrel with careful fingers. “This one’s from 1823,” he says, reaching for another pen at the same time I do.
Our fingers collide, and I gasp softly and pull back, my cheeks flushing pink, and there it is again, that jolt of awareness that has nothing to do with fountain pens and everything to do with the man standing next to me.
“Sorry, I—”
“Here.” He picks up the pen and holds it out to me, his hand steady, his expression unreadable. “Feel the weight of history.”
I take it carefully, and then he moves to stand behind me, close enough that I can feel his presence like warmth from a fire, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple. I tense. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
“The nib is hand-ground,” he murmurs, reaching around me to point at the delicate goldwork. “See how smooth it would flow?”
His chest is nearly against my back. My hands tremble slightly as I hold the pen.
“Try it,” he says softly. “Write something.”
“I—” My voice comes out breathy. “What should I write?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
I uncap the pen with shaking fingers, touch the nib to paper. The ink flows beautifully, and I write three words:
