“Ma che cazzo,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m going to be so unimpressed by what he has planned that he will regret his evil tight-lippedness for the rest of his life.
Soon, he parks behind a broad, windowless building.
“Is this a warehouse?” I ask.
“It’s not a warehouse.”
“Ha! You gave me a hint.”
Shaking his head, he leads me through a staff entrance, past a security desk and down a narrow corridor lined with metal doors.
“Is this a prison?”
“Patience.”
“How old were you when your obsession with patience started?”
He just laughs.
We walk a bit further, and then, looking a bit nervous, he opens another door.
“We only have access to this one wing,” he explains.
The low sound of dehumidifiers greets me as we step into what I immediately realize is the Map Museum of South Ridge.
I turn to him, already buzzing with enthusiasm.
“How did you—what did you—Caspian?”
I lean over a glass case, careful not to touch.
A hand-colored vellum map from the early 17th century lies there in all its historical glory.
“I love this,” I tell him, gesturing around.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Caspian sounds genuinely pleased.
I inspect the map again.
“I can almost see the room,” I say, my voice hushed and reverent. “The candle is flickering and the mapmaker is holding a brush, painting the world as he knows it.”
I close my eyes. It all feels so vivid.
“Then the door opens, and a gentleman steps in. The mapmaker knows he’s in trouble—”
I clear my throat, cheeks flushed.
“The end.”
Caspian steps closer, radiating heat.
“I want to hear the rest of that story,” he murmurs. “Especially if the mapmaker was anything like you.”
“He was,” I admit, my whole skin on fire. “And the gentleman looked like you.”
Caspian’s gaze flicks briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. We
