10. Adelbert

Chapter ten

Adelbert

I hurry down the corridor and push open the hidden door that only a few staff members are aware of, and the library welcomes me like an old friend.

A sense of peace descends on me as I breathe in the scent of paper, ink, and glue—the holy trinity for a bibliophile like myself—and I savor the absolute quiet and complete solitude in my favorite place.

Vastly different from the rest of the stone castle, the large library's wooden interior is warm and rich, and invites you to get lost between its shelves for hours on end.

An intricately designed wooden barrel ceiling running down the center of the cavernous main room divides the library into two sections: Elvish tomes on the right, other languages on the left. Numerous ladders lean against the tall oak shelves, amplifying their height. Their wood grain is familiar to my hand even from this distance.

Elvish culture reveres intellect, and from a young age we learn to distance ourselves from emotions and focus on facts. Any opinions one might have that are not based on facts, are frowned upon.

And being raised on the grounds of Alberad, this has led me to spend most of my available time in this library, searching for answers to any questions I might have and finding companionship with the books. Sometimes I'd be drawn to the windows, watching other species playing outside, then have to shake myself out of the desire to join them.

Elves do not play. We study. We lead.

I don't allow myself to linger too long, choosing to heed the call of the clock ticking against me and head toward the Elvish section on the fates, taking care to keep my steps light as I march across the polished wooden floor.

The urgency to dissolve this mystifying bond so that all of us can return to our lives as usual, is hot against the back of my neck, compelling me to work swiftly. A few theories have entered my mind as to what could have caused the markings and the bonds. However, checking for any precedent cases is imperative before I will permit myself to share any of the theories with my friends and their bonded partners.

My most compelling lead is based on the boat that the women chartered that took them to the Alberad Caribbean Estate. It was named Amarto , which is the Elvish for "the fates."

"This is early. Even for you."

My father's voice startles me and my feet instantly come to a halt, icy nails scraping down my back. Thoughts that he has discovered our predicament rush to the fore, and an image of him calling all my friends and their bonded partners to be examined and interrogated flashes through my brain. I need to protect them.

Thus, like I have done since I was old enough to master my emotions, I take great care to regulate my breathing and not to let a fraction of my concerns show on my face.

I lift my brows and incline my head in greeting. " Vater ."

With his trademark Alberad icy-blonde hair, I can't believe I didn't see him lurking between the shelves. Nithard Alberad wipes at the nonexistent dust on the spine of a book and prowls from the shadows.

"You have returned ahead of schedule," he says in his customary flat voice.

"Yes," I acknowledge but don't give him any extra ammunition.

"Eager to finish your research? I must say, I am very much looking forward to your presentation this fall."

"Yes, I am well prepared."

My father's jaw tightens. "I shall hope you do not embarrass me by postponing for another year. It has already brought so much shame to the Alberad name."

"Yes, Vater . My apologies."

His upper lip curls back. "I do not need your apologies. I need your excellence."

"Yes, Vater ." I incline my head again.

He narrows his eyes at me. "I expect everything went smoothly at our Caribbean estate?"

I take a surreptitious breath and follow my age-old method of dealing with my father: keep responses short and deflect as soon as possible.

"Everyone had a great time. Is there any way I can be of assistance to you this morning?"

My father picks some invisible lint off the lapel of his jacket.

"Nothing I cannot manage. Though, I did detect a peculiarity in the ward this morning on your side. Must have been you crossing over earlier than anticipated."

My Adam's apple bobs on a hard swallow at the thought of not being thorough enough when we crossed the wards. I resist the temptation to curl my hands into fists at the mere possibility of my father discovering Florence sitting alone on the bench outside.

Knowing I need to conclude this conversation before he gets more suspicious, I say, "It most likely was. I better be off now. There is one specific case I would like to revisit before finalizing my presentation."

My father raises his chin and looks down his nose at me, despite my taller height.

"I have high expectations of this… ‘research' of yours that has taken so long. I still do not understand why you have not consulted me. My expertise has been sought by many who have come before you."

I bow my head in submission, or perhaps to hide the frustration that is surely evident on my face by now.

"I wish to keep my theory private until the day of presentation."

My father's mouth turns down, disapproval radiating from him like I have just dog-eared his favorite book.

"So you have said. Best be off." He makes a shooing motion and walks in the opposite direction.

When the main door shuts behind him, I finally allow myself to release the breath I had been holding.

I glance at the windows and note how much lighter it has gotten in the short time I spent talking to my father. An unpleasant sensation stirs in my chest thinking about Florence sitting unguarded and alone behind the stone wall, and a sense of urgency nips at my heels as I hasten to the section dedicated to the fates.

Canting my head to see around the stack of Elvish tomes in my arms, I adjust my grip, taking care to hold the books steady against my body. I may be in a rush to return to Florence, though, not at the risk of facing the librarian's wrath over a damaged book.

Luckily, I make it through the back corridor without encountering anyone else, and I exit into the morning light.

My feet carry me to Florence, and I ignore the brief, weak sensation in my knees when she spots me and a wide grin blooms across her face.

That smile will plague me for months once she has left.

If seeing my father today proved anything, it is that I should get her out of Germany and away from me sooner rather than later.

Perched on Florence's lap is our resident library cat—the laziest, most inept of creatures. It showed up at Alberad one day, made itself at home, and no one has been able to get it to leave.

"You're back," Florence whispers brightly. Her eyes are on me, but her attention remains on the cat as she keeps stroking it.

"What are you doing with the cat? It is not a pet."

"What? He's lovely and so sweet," Florence says with her lips forming a pout.

"It is meant to be working. In the library. Chasing mice away."

"Oh." The word comes out on a breath of disappointment. It seems I cannot manage to do anything else than displease people this morning.

"Let's go," I say and incline my head in the direction of my home.

Florence tilts the cat's head up by scratching under its chin, and the cat starts up a preposterous purr.

"I'm sorry, Sir Purrington. I hope we meet again. Thank you for keeping me warm," she coos at the cat.

My jaw goes slack. "Sir what?"

"Oops, I should've asked. What's his name?" Florence asks expectantly.

"It does not, in fact, have a name. As I have said, it is not a pet. We just call it ‘cat.'"

"He seemed to like it when I called him Sir Purrington," she explains with a defiant little tilt of her chin.

"How does a cat— Never mind."

Florence gently picks the cat up and sets it on the ground. The cat then proceeds to weave itself between her legs, rubbing itself against her like she's its favorite possession.

It stirs an oddly uncomfortable feeling in me, causing my scowl to deepen.

How could one woman affect me so formidably when I have only known her for days?

"It has never acted like that in front of me or anyone else I've seen," I state, astounded by the strange behavior of the cat. I know it hasn't caught a mouse in years and usually sneaks into the kitchens to steal food, but it is meant to have minimal contact with people in order for it to perform the duties we expect it to.

Florence straightens her shoulders and a smirk pulls at the left corner of her mouth.

"That just means I'm special."

"Hmph," is all I can manage, choosing not to address that statement directly.

"Can I help you carry some of those?" Florence asks, gesturing to the eight tomes in my arms.

I nod. "I would appreciate it. Let me set them on the bench first. It would be easiest to avoid touch this way."

I move toward the bench and Florence scoots out of the way, giving me enough space to avoid accidentally brushing against her skin. The cat follows her movement, and Florence crouches down to whisper to it while both her hands keep running along its fur.

On the island, I was painfully aware that Florence and her sister are very tactile people. Sadie was practically attached to Everett from the moment they met, both of them having a hand on the other almost constantly.

I cannot imagine what that must be like. Elves do not touch. Or hug. We have no need for that. I have had lovers over the years and they have served a mutually beneficial purpose. It has never developed into anything that could be construed as… feelings. I do not have space nor time for that in my life.

My responsibilities come first.

My research.

My legacy.

It has been difficult to keep my research confidential, but once I have perfected it, all the secrecy will have been worth it. I have taken great care not to reveal my studies to anyone else, despite my father's best attempts.

When I present my findings, it will alter the way magic is viewed.

Hefting the largest six of the ancient Elvish tomes into my arms, I straighten up and point to the two left on the bench.

"Can you manage these two without tripping?"

For fuck's sake, she didn't trip on purpose. Why did you have to say that?

"I think I can manage."

For the first time, Florence's smile seems pasted on, the light in her blue eyes dimmed, and it reinforces my resolve to get her away from me before that becomes a regular occurrence.

Why does my heart prick at the thought of saying goodbye?

Without another word, I turn and stride in the direction of my home, knowing she'll follow and unwilling to see whatever emotion she's trying to mask.