I don’t believe you.
He huffed.
Raoul ran a hand through his damp hair, looking as unsettled as I felt.
“So,” I said brightly. “The records. So, you mentioned they’re organized chronologically?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The oldest volumes are in the back. We can start there if you’d like to see the full historical scope, or we can begin with more recent data if you’re looking for specific patterns.”
“Let’s start with the oldest.” I needed something to focus on besides how much I wanted him to touch me again. “Historical baseline data will be essential for identifying long-term climate shifts.”
We made our way to the back of the archives, where the volumes were even more ancient. Raoul pulled down several books, and we settled at a reading table with Fletcher curling up beneath it.
Try not to create any more weather disasters,he said.
I’m not?—
You absolutely are.
I ignored him and opened the first volume.
For a while, we worked together quietly. I took notes, cross-referencing observations, identifying patterns. Raoul asked good questions, making connections between weather patterns and historical events.
It was perfect. Exactly the kind of intellectual partnership I’d hoped for.
Except I couldn’t stop being aware of him. Of how close he sat, how our elbows occasionally nudged, how he smelled amazing. How his voice dropped lower when he was concentrating. How his fingers skimmed across the page as he read aloud.
The same fingers that had been?—
No. Not thinking about that.
I was three volumes deep into precipitation patterns from the two-hundred-and-eighty-one years ago when Raoul made a small sound.
“What is it?” I asked, looking up from my notes.
“I’m not sure yet.” He got up and pulled four more volumes from the shelves, each with a newer date, placing them on the table. Sitting, he skimmed through the first two he’d collected. “There’s something odd about the rainfall distribution in Brightmore Valley.”
“That’s,” I paused, thinking, “a few valleys away from here, to the east, correct?”
“Yes.”
I moved my chair closer to see what he was looking at. Our shoulders pressed together, and I firmly ignored the flutter in my belly.
“See here?” He pointed to a chart in the oldest volume. “For some reason, Brightmore has received significantly less rainfall than the surrounding regions during thisgrowing season. I noticed a cyclical pattern while reading about cloud formations.”
“It could be a topographical anomaly.” I leaned in to study the data. “Mountains create rain shadows?—”
“That’s what I thought too. But look at this.” He pointed to another volume, this one with a closer date to present day. “Same pattern. Brightmore is dry during this growing season only, exactly fifty years after the prior drought.”
My pulse quickened in a way that had nothing to do with Raoul’s proximity. “And fifty years after that?”
We studied the volumes, spreading them across the table in chronological order. Every fifty years, we found the same pattern. Brightmore Valley received approximately a quarter of the rainfall of neighboring regions during the crucial growing months.
“This is amazing,” I breathed, already calculating in my head. “It’s some kind of atmospheric pressure system that shifts on a fifty-year rotation. The mountains must channel wind patterns differently depending on—” I stopped, my stomach dropping. “Raoul, it’s been fifty years since the last incident, hasn’t it?”
“That means it could be happening this growing season.” His expression had gone serious. “If the pattern holds, Brightmore is experiencing drought conditions right now.”
“We need to verify this.” I was already pulling my notebook closer, sketching out the atmospheric conditions that could cause such a regular cycle. “If it’s happening right now, we might be able to intervene.”
