“Caleb,” she whispered, and hers was most definitely chiding—for what if someone saw them? Beneath her voice, however, a whole ocean of tears threatened.
And maybe Caleb recognized that, for he kissed her forehead; then, as she feared the ocean might rise in a tsunami to overwhelm her, he stepped back. Taking her hand, he proceeded to tow her along the corridor. Amelia stumbled a little, trying to keep up, but Caleb showed no concern for this. He was clearly prepared to dismiss any excuse or apology shemight make. Somehow, it was lovely. At least the flutters in her stomach seemed to think so.
“Did you have to tell them I was going to vomit?” she complained.
“Yes,” he said. “Otherwise they’d be out here with us, wanting to know what we’re doing.”
“Whatarewe doing?”
He flashed her a grin. “I’m taking you up to the attic. Come on.”
But Amelia stopped, requiring him also to halt or else be ungentlemanly. He looked at her as if preparing an argument.
“Wrong way,” she said.
“Oops.” Transferring his hold from her wrist to her hand, then setting his own free hand on her waist, he danced her around in a half circle until they were facing the correct direction. Amelia did not even have a moment to recover from sweet, tingly dizziness before he let her go and began to lead her toward the stairs.
“But why the attic?” she asked. “Why not another room in the house? We have so much work to do.”
“Not this afternoon we don’t,” Caleb answered firmly. “You are going to take a break, Professor Tarrant. And you’ll be doing it in the attic because, for a start, no one will look for us there. But also because I was exploring the other day and found something I want you to see.”
At this, curiosity, the essential trait of all historians, sparked within Amelia’s wearied brain. “Ooh. What?”
Caleb waggled his eyebrows at her. She knew all too well what that meant.
They were about to have an adventure.
Chapter Fifteen
History’s most powerful stories of love and sorrows we can but glimpse like ghosts in jeweled rings, tombs, and the minutiae of household management records.
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
The shadows ofthe narrow stairwell smelled hundreds of years old. Eerie shapes, created by the sway of light from a lantern Caleb had procured along the way, seemed to reach out with claws to torment Amelia as she followed him up toward the attic’s door. She wasn’t frightened, for her career often led her into spooky places (haunted houses, museum basements, and the parlors of elderly ladies who serve lukewarm tea), but she briefly contemplated acting as if she were, so that Caleb would hold her hand again. He paused before a door at the top of the stairs and looked at Amelia with an intensity made all the more dramatic by deep shadow and the flame of his lantern. “Prepare yourself,” he said in a hushed, solemn voice.
Unimpressed, Amelia looked back at him steadily. “Are there ghosts? Spiders? Should I have brought my insect repellent? Or is the roof broken and an enchanted wind blows in from the fells, keening of the lost summer?”
His expression collapsed. “No,” he said rather petulantly. “Just— Well see for yourself.”
He pushed the door ajar, its hinges groaning mournfully in the tradition of attic doors everywhere. As he progressed into the chamber, Amelia followed cautiously, for she did not quite trust his assurances on the matter of spiders. But what she saw brought her to a surprised halt.
“Told you so,” Caleb said, smiling at the look on her face.
A moderately sized room stood before them, its ceiling angled steeply, its windows narrow and lead lined (early 1400s,Amelia guessed, but was not about to ask Professor Throckmorton up for a more accurate estimate). A sense of damp centuries freighted its shadows. So far, so gothic. But the wooden floorboards were well swept and scented with lemon polish. Green checkered curtains adorned the windows. Along one wall stood a rail hung with fluffy, cozy dressing gowns; against another, a scrupulously dust-free sideboard displayed a biscuit jar, an unlit lantern, bottles of whiskey, and tidy stacks of magazines. At the center of the room, two large, faded leather armchairs sat opposite each other, a low table between them.
“Huh,” Amelia said, unsure whether to be disappointed (no antiques anywhere to be seen) or relieved (no antiques anywhere to be seen!).
“The servants use it as a private lounge,” Caleb said as he set down his lantern on the table and moved to light the other.
Amelia frowned mildly in confusion. “How could you know that?”
“I asked them.”
“Good heavens.” She was quite astonished by this unconventional means of information gathering.
Caleb shrugged. “It turns out they’re…well, people.”
“You smiled at them,” Amelia accused.
