Graham tightened his grip.
The intruder surged anyway, desperate strength flaring.
Eleanor lunged at the same instant, reaching for the book.
“No,” Graham bit out, too late.
The man’s elbow caught Eleanor’s shoulder hard enough to steal her breath. The volume tore open in his hand, and a folded sheet fluttered out.
He grabbed for it.
Eleanor caught the other edge.
For one violent second, the paper held.
Then it ripped.
The intruder bolted, scrap clenched in his fist, and dove back through the open window with the agility of a fox.
Graham lunged after him, but the man vanished into the rain-dark yard beyond before he could clear the sill. Graham swore under his breath, then forced himself into stillness.
He listened. No second set of boots. No whisper in the hall. Only rain and the slow drip of a gutter. Satisfied they were alone, he turned from the window.
Eleanor stood with her left shoulder forward, barring the desk as though it were a rampart. In her hand was the upper portion of the catalogue sheet, headings and the first entries intact, the torn edge ragged where the bottom half had been ripped away.
Her other hand was scraped, blood bright against pale skin.
“You are hurt,” Graham said.
Eleanor glanced down, then dabbed at it with the corner of her dressing gown as if it were an inconvenience. “Nothing serious. I have had worse paper cuts.”
Something thin, treacherous, lifted at the corner of his mouth.
He locked it down immediately, and kept his gaze on the torn page. “Did he take something?” he asked, though he already knew.
“He took the bottom,” Eleanor said, voice flat with restrained fury. “The part he wanted most, I suspect.”
“Show me what remains,” Graham said.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “You snuck into my father’s study, and have been here long enough to witness a burglary and you expect me to hand you my father’s papers as though you are a trusted relation? I do not even know you.”
“I expect you to stay alive,” Graham replied, “And you will come to know me quite well.”
“Is that so?” She lifted her chin lifted. “Then be useful.”
The audacity of it should have irritated him. Instead it stirred something he did not have time to name.
She held the paper out just enough for him to read without surrendering her grip.
Hargrove Library—Private Catalogue Additions (Revised)
Shelf | Author | Title | Edition | Notes
A2. Byron. Hours of Idleness. 18-16. Restricted.
B4. Goldsmith. The Vicar of Wakefield. 20-16. Duplicate.
C1. Pope. An Essay on Criticism. 18-14. Restricted.
