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Quint places his hand on the small of my back, and the fear flees. “Ben would want me here with you.”

It almost makes me laugh, the thought of Ben wishing me to stay with Quint. It’s the last thing he wants. The thing he’s likely worried will happen, even if we both know I can’t. I shake my head and sigh. “I know.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Quint looks up from his book. “You should really be lying down, Miss Granville.”

His words and the half-amused tone slide over me, barely making an impression. Something tells me to pay attention to the almost buried underlying affection in it, but I can’t.

“He is the stupidest man I’ve ever known.” I pace across the library again, wringing my hands and, for all intents and purposes, as useless as Ben has always wanted me. I’m not a useless lady, and if I had the slightest idea how to go after Ben and drag him back to Quint’s before I killed him outright, I would go. That would show him how capable I am as his partner.

“You realize he had to, Miss Granville. It was your only lead.”

I catch the patronizing tone as I drop onto the couch. A hint of you silly girl is in his voice. Is it the fact that he’s nine years older than me now, rather than one year younger? I can’t help studying him—I can never help studying him—He’s over thirty now and so much more … a man. Mature and sensible. Quint raises a questioning eyebrow at me, and heat rushes into my cheeks. I look down at my hands, tangled in my skirt. “I should’ve run after him.”

Tightness ribs his next observance. “Your heel had already broken. You weren’t going anywhere.”

I get up to pace again, glaring at the clock on a shelf in the corner. Six hours since Ben ran after Gibbons. He’s probably lying in some gutter in the city, and we might not know for weeks. We can’t have the police looking for Ben until more time has passed. My nerves will be ragged by then.

“Should I have Mrs. Barrow send in your dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He sighs. “You must be exhausted after so much pacing. You haven’t stopped since we returned. Perhaps you should go to bed. It is late.” He closes his book with a snap.

“You may not play the matronly role with me, Quint Allen,” I say, my own tone scolding. “Even if we have reversed our ages. I’m not a child, and I won’t go to bed just because you’ve told me to. I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. But I won’t blame you if that’s what you want to do.” The last part is petty and as childish as he maybe thinks me.

Quint’s lips slide into a thin line. “I am as worried as you,” he snaps.

Tears well in my eyes. I turn away to hide them. We shouldn’t be snapping at each other. My words should’ve made him laugh and joke about how I’m still acting like the boss, even though it’s he who is older. I should be able to find comfort in Quint. The irony strikes me painfully.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I keep my back turned from him and then pace the other way, pausing when I come to the bookshelves, unwilling to face Quint again.

I stand there, taking quick, shallow breaths in an effort to rid myself of emotion. The drawer of the desk across the room opens and closes, and a few moments later, Quint’s hand brushes my shoulder.

“Perhaps these would be comforting.” He hands me a packet of letters, tied with a ribbon. “My mother found them after you … left.”

I stare at the familiar handwriting of the address. “They’re from my mom.”

“Yes.” He nods encouragingly. He steps away but then turns back. “You saw her… recently?” he questions. “You went back and found her?”

I clutch the letters to my chest. “You remember seeing me?” I ask, surprised. “You were so young.”

“It was only because I’m aware of your talents that I was able to pick out the oddity of a memory appearing in my brain. But yes, of course I remember.” He shakes his head, as though he can shake me right out of it, and returns to the chair he was sitting in.

There is a thread that connects us, I think as I stare. One that I cannot seem to snap. I make my way to the couch as I untie the ribbon capturing the letters and open the one on top.

From the contents, it must have been the first letter written after the Allens left. My mom updated Mrs. Allen on the people still there who they must have both known. I smile to myself when I come to a paragraph that mentions Quint. My darling little girl asks every day when Quinten will come back and play with her. She misses him so, and I will confess, I miss her having a playmate. It’s quite difficult to keep her entertained without him.

The letter contains little in the way of actual answers to any of the questions I’ve sought after before. In fact, it gives me the impression that my mother is being intentionally vague with her news.

“Do you mind if I take these to my room tonight to read them?” I ask, breaking the silence that has pervaded while I study the first few.

“They are yours to keep. Mother thought they might bring you comfort or answers that she might have missed.” Quint barely glances up from the book he’s reading to answer me. If it weren’t for the way he locks his jaw after speaking, I would wonder if he cares at all for me.

I open another letter as I leave the room, gazing with rising emotion at my mother’s familiar handwriting. It doesn’t even matter what she wrote. With my attention on the paper, my foot catches on the edge of a rug in the hallway outside the library, and I sprawl forward, crying out as my already bruised knees skid across the floor—too hard for my liking, even with the thick rug. I roll over, wincing at the way my knees throb.

Quint appears at my side in much less time than it should have taken from the chair he’d been occupying in the library. “Clara?” He bends, scooping a hand under my waist and lifting me. Heat sizzles over my back where he holds me. My knees wobble as I stand, perhaps from the pain or from his proximity. He steadies me with a hand on the other side of my waist.