Page 117 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“Of course someone will determine it,” Salmond said.

Roman frowned. “Then you require standards.”

“We shall establish standards.”

“When?”

His host shrugged. “When it becomes necessary.”

“It is already necessary if you are discussing collections.”

Salmond threw out his hands. “We do not yet possess a collection.”

Roman huffed and crossed his arms. “Then this would seem the ideal time to determine what one is.”

Salmond stared at him. Roman stared back. Slowly, the man smiled. “No.”

Roman frowned. “No? What can you mean by that?”

“I mean, you are not doing this to me tonight.”

“Speak clearly, Salmond. What is it you think I am doing?”

The older man tutted and leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Turning my society into Parliament.”

What sort of an accusation was that! “I am attempting to prevent your society from becoming a room full of unlabeled rocks⁠—”

“They are not merely rocks.”

“So I have recently been informed,” Roman retorted dryly.

Salmond laughed, a great, booming sound. After a moment, Roman did too. The sound startled him. His host turned to answer a question from another man, but Roman felt the relief of it at once. He could not remember the last time he had laughed so freely, a sobering realization.

The man with the spectacles appeared at his elbow with another specimen. “This one,” he announced, “even you cannot mistake for a stone.”

Roman looked down at it. “You may have too much confidence in my abilities.”

The man snorted.

Roman stayed. He had intended to remain an hour, and instead he stayed through the discussion of rules and membership while men proposed officers and argued over what, precisely, the society ought to encompass, while Salmond spoke with the fervor Roman had learned to associate with subjects the man loved too much to discuss sensibly. Somewhere in the course of the evening, Roman understood why he had nearly remained at home.

He did not want another cause; another room full of men discussing what ought to be done for York, being persuaded that this institution or that improvement or some other worthy endeavor required his name, his influence, his time.

Micklegate’s barbican still sat inside his heart like a bruise. He’d believed they could save the structure—that was the humiliating simplicity of it. He had known better than to be certain, had understood the opposition and the interests involved, had known how easily money and convenience could outweigh preservation. He had believed anyway.

Now he could not pass beneath Micklegate’s bar without seeing everything he had failed to prevent.

But slowly the differences presented themselves. No one at Salmond’s had asked him to prevent anything. No one needed him to save a wall. A fossil had been buried in Yorkshire for longer than Roman could properly comprehend and his opinion of it was irrelevant. His influence was useless. The thing existed whether he understood it or not, which was strangely comforting. He wished, many times over the course of the evening, he had asked Tamsin to accompany him.

By the time Roman stepped outside, Minster Yard was freezing. He stood for a moment beneath the light spilling from Salmond’s windows and drew a breath that pleasantly hurt his lungs.

He felt better.

Roman frowned. ‘Better’ was too simple a word. He did not feel better about Micklegate; nothing that had happened inside Salmond’s house had altered the decision or restored what would be lost. But the sorrow and defeat had shifted enough to make room for a feeling besides anger.

Curiosity, perhaps.

And he wanted to tell his wife everything about it.