The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
He winced.
Was it too late to find something else?
After all, shehadescaped the grave in a way, hadn’t she? She hadn’t died so much as she had vanished without a trace.
He bit his lip, pushing himself to his feet and carefully lifting the lantern, which was truly in its death rattles now, moving carefully toward the door. He had seen some books in the salon. Perhaps there was some poetry amongst them.
It did not escape him that he was leaving behind that last page of the letter, still half-unread. He stood there, staring down at it, torn between saving a few of her words, still unspoken, until such a time as he might need them, and knowing that he had to finish this task.
If nothing else, those final lines might contain something that would get him throttled by Malcolm if he did not read them tonight.
Still, they could wait a moment.
They could wait for him to refresh the lantern oil and browse the books in the salon.
Malcolm would never know.
He moved through the shadows as carefully as he could. And, despite leaving her words behind him on the hearthside table, he thought Willa must have approved of this detour.
Because he immediately found what he sought amongst those bundles and book spines, full of treasured literature and personal correspondences. He found them despite the hour, like a beacon in the dead of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hattie did notawaken so much as sheflewfrom slumber into a state of alarm.
“Elias?!” she cried, coming straight up in the bed with her hands clutched in the blankets on either side of her. “What time is it?!”
But Elias was not there.
And the sun appeared to be fully present in the sky.
She had not been downstairs, and therefore she had not been present for Libba’s customary ritual of rude awakening for showcase day. She had not heard the chimes or the drum or the shouting.
Oh, God, there was no clock in here!
This flavor of panic wasnotthe cold paste of burnt toast and smashed, fire-roasted tomato. No, no. That was for things yet undone, not things currently in progress.
This tasted unbearably sweet, so sweet, it ached in the cheekbones and jaw. Like milk syrup and figs and yellow cake as well, all mushed together in an unbearable ball of saccharine assault.
“Elias!” she croaked again, confused at how she had come to be contained in a pocket of blankets, her feet trapped in a makeshift pouch as she flailed out of her cushioned and feathered prison. “Are we late?!”
She finally got herself free, flinging the blankets up and at the window so hard, the curtains trembled. Out of the bed and into her slippers, Hattie moved frantically, rearranging her robe as she moved out into the salon, where she found her husband, asleep in an armchair, surrounded by books and… and illustrations? Little sketches and doodles on stiff card stock, some with notes scribbled on them, each next to the envelope it had come in.
What the devil had he been about?!
“Elias!” she said, gripping his shoulder as he startled out of his own reverie. “The showcase!”
“What?” he barked, his palms slapping up over his eyes to rub the sleep away. “Who?”
“Oh, we need a clock!” she moaned. “I will go see how bad it is! Do not move!”
