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Iris emerged into a spacious attic room, full of wood beams that stretched high above her to form a point overhead, and dark, sloping corners obscured by rows of low bookshelves that spanned the length of the room. Dozens of the sort of tiny lightbulbs people usually strung up in their patios trailed across the rafters, while a bed set in an ornately carved wooden frame rested beside the single window overlooking the restless waves.

In the other corner, a desk was piled high with books that wouldn’t fit on the packed shelves, along with a collection of bowls, measuring cups, and other supplies, all stacked neatly in a large canister.

Casting an anxious glance behind her, Iris stepped further into the room. She ran her hand along the spines of the books lining the low shelves until her fingers caught on a piece of paper sticking out of one of them. She knew she was being far too intrusive, but she couldn’t help it; Iris slid the book off the shelf and let it fall open in her hands.

It was a letter, written on thin, yellowy paper. Iris unfolded it and tried to decipher the cursive scrawl. The letter was addressed to Mr. Hailstone. She furrowed her brows in confusion.

“How much did you hear?”

She jumped, a hand clutching her heart as she whirled around to find Blair hovering in the doorway. “You scared the hell out of me.” She bit her lip, still clutching the book. “I’m sorry, I’m being nosy.”

“It’s alright.” He stood on the threshold, his eyes scanning the room as though afraid that if he stepped inside, the door might snap closed and lock him in.

“Your room is very neat,” Iris observed. “I expected more chaos considering how long you’ve had to accumulate things.” Blair grimaced, and Iris cast around for a change of subject. “Oh, I didn’t answer your question,” she realized. “I didn’t hear anything. What did your mom tell you about Lucy?”

Apparently, that subject was no more welcome than the previous one. Blair dragged his hand along the doorframe, his jaw tight. “I don’t want to talk about it right now, if that’s alright.”

Iris nodded, but she felt a little irritated. She had hoped they were past the stage where Blair locked away all of his secrets from her. She gestured to the aged note. “Who’s Mr. Hailstone?”

Blair’s eyebrows rose as he peered down at it. He ran a hand through his hair, an unexpected smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

Bemused, Blair closed the book over the letter. “Recognize the cover?”

The book looked nearly as old as the note, though in near mint condition. Iris examined the navy cloth cover overlaid with golden embossed vines. The title The Dove’s Ascent curled in a downward slope from the top left corner, letters intermingling with the vines. Recognition dawned on her.

“This is the book Gabriel was reading last month,” she recalled. “I didn’t realize you’d read it.”

Blair smirked, looking uncharacteristically pleased with himself. The book still in Iris’ hands, he carefully thumbed through the first few gossamer-thin pages until he came upon one that listed the author.

“Theodore Hailstone,” Iris read, putting the pieces together. Blair must have purchased this letter written to the book’s author, or perhaps it had been tucked into the pages of the secondhand book.

She slid out the note again, curious to see who it was from.

The letter was signed C. Bell.

With a thrill of disbelief, Iris’ eyes flitted back up the page to read from the beginning. The letter expressed a deep appreciation for the novel, which was apparently Mr. Hailstone’s debut. Iris paused at a certain passage, rereading the script until she could make out the words.

I also wish to impress upon you my belief that far from indicating an unworldly author as certain critics have intoned, the depth and fortitude of your narrative suggests a mind of great intellect and emotional understanding, for which I found myself, in equal measure, moved and disquieted.

The letter went on to request that Mr. Hailstone continue their correspondence if he wished, so that though an ocean apart, we might find in one another a respite from the humdrum of country life, writer to writer, great mind to—and here I might well be overselling my abilities—great mind.

Iris looked up at Blair, shocked. “Is this letter from Currer Bell? As in, Charlotte Brontë?”

Blair’s lips twitched as though he were trying to hold back a smile. His hands clasped politely behind his back, he nodded. “I have more, if you want to read them.”

“I—Of course! But where did you get all these?”

She watched in astonishment as Blair crossed the room in two long strides, knelt beside the bed, and slid out a decorative box. He pulled out a stack of envelopes held together with a piece of string and handed them to her. Iris sat on the bed, her hands shaking a little in anticipation as she unbound the letters.

In the top letter, Charlotte commented on a house fire scene from The Dove’s Ascent, anecdotally sharing her father’s fears that their own family home might one day burn down to cinders, and how he had consequently forbidden his daughters from hanging curtains. She also expressed her concern that the novel she was currently writing (Shirley) might never live up to or receive the same level of public success as Jane Eyre. She shared how trapped she felt stuck at home caring for her ailing father when she dreamed of exploring the world like your Mr. Westbrook, grasping life by the reins and riding it as far as inspiration leads me.

Hungry for more, Iris unfolded a second letter, her eyes flying across the page. Now that she was used to the script, it was much easier to decipher. Here, Charlotte reminisced about her time as a governess, appreciating how those dreary days influenced her creativity, though they failed to provide her with the mental stimulation she desired.

I do appreciate our continued correspondence, she had written. You cannot know how nice it is to have a friend, faceless though you may be, to share in my joys and sorrows. Yours, C. Bell.

Iris froze as she unfolded the third letter, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at Blair in shock. Until then, he had been seated beside her, silent as he watched her read. Now a look of guilt crept over his face. His eyes flicked up to meet hers before he averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck.