18

E arly the next afternoon, Stephen swung his helmet's telescopic lens away from his eyes and blinked at all the devices in their varying stages filling up the Great Hall. When his eyes adjusted, he removed his leather tinker's helmet and placed it and his tools in a compartment he'd devised for safekeeping. Absently, he ran his hand over his hair in a halfhearted attempt to fluff the matted locks out of their helmet shape.

What time was it? Normally, he would have pressed a lever to trigger an outdoor machine he'd created that, after an intricate series of cause-and-effect reactions, terminated in the display of a sundial. But that sequence took forty minutes to reset. The position of the sun and his pocket watch confirmed it was midafternoon. He smiled. For the first time in years, Stephen wasn't looking for ways to fill up his empty days. He knew exactly how he wanted to spend his time:

With Elizabeth.

He dusted off his trousers and glanced out of the open window. The empty grass indicated the castle was not yet under siege. Reddington and his men might be lurking in the forest, but as long as they weren't actively charging the castle, Stephen planned to continue ignoring the threats.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was constitutionally incapable of ignoring any potential violent skirmish. The only thing stopping her from charging out into the woods with her sword raised high was her commitment to making her client's case her top priority. After breaking her fast with Stephen, she immediately resumed her quest to solve the puzzle and find the hidden will.

But even a Wynchester ought to pause intermittently for sustenance. This seemed as good a time as any for a bit of company and a hearty tea.

Stephen placed his request with a footman, then hurried through the stone corridors in search of Elizabeth.

He found her in the library.

A twinge of sympathy twisted in Stephen's chest. Both Elizabeth and Miss Oak were trying their hardest to accomplish a worthy mission… that they might never be able to realize. For both their sakes, Stephen hoped his cousin would walk through the door at any moment, will and deed in hand.

Even if Stephen put the probability at 0.0013.

He stepped into the room. "How is it going?"

Elizabeth glanced up from the tome in her hand, green eyes shining. "Philippa would adore this library. She loves bookshelves with ladders."

The walls stretched twelve feet tall, and every inch of them was covered with shelves of books. A track around the ceiling allowed for the hooking of a stationary ladder. Stephen would have added wheels to the ladder, but he supposed the current system was satisfactory enough. He could imagine his aunt Arminia seated in one of the flowery chairs, paging through a novel.

"The unicorn led you here?"

"It didn't lead me anywhere," she admitted. "I thought maybe it was a literary reference. Her favorite book, or one she loved to listen to as a child."

"Clever. How many of these books were her favorites?"

"I haven't the least notion… but there are one thousand, six hundred and fifty-two volumes. It took all day, but I flipped through every last one of them, hoping the next clue would be written in plain English on a piece of paper hidden inside."

"Was it?"

Her shoulders slumped. "No."

"I'm sorry you didn't find anything." Somewhat sorry. If she did manage a miracle, their interlude would end all the sooner.

"I found five volumes referencing unicorns and a recipe book for biscuits, including Scotch petticoat tails." She gestured with her sword at a pile lying on one of the ornamental tables. "The books I intend to borrow are over there, if you're interested."

"I'm always interested in shortbread. In fact, when I was a child, I dreamt of meals in which every course was a different, delicious dessert."

Her eyes brightened. "Me too."

He grinned. "I was hoping you might have time to take tea with me. It's being delivered to the study."

"Tea sounds perfect." She twirled her sword. "I can come back to this later."

"Is that a new sword?" he inquired as she fell into step beside him.

"It's a very old sword. Or at least, modeled after one. Many of my heroines were medieval knights."

"Really? I didn't think any women were medieval knights."

"Well… They weren't given that exact title," Elizabeth admitted. "But that's a matter of semantics. Are you familiar with the Order of the Hatchet?"

"I am not," he replied. "Nor am I surprised to learn that you would be familiar with it."

"One hundred and fifty years ago, a Spanish count founded the Order in honor of the women of Tortosa. The women dressed like soldiers—and battled like soldiers—to defend their town from attack whilst the men were off fighting elsewhere."

"They used hatchets?"

"Hatchets, swords, farming tools… anything they could get their hands on. These ladies shared the same jaunty anything-can-be-a-murder-weapon outlook as your machines. I would have been honored to fight alongside them."

"Your sword is modeled after one of theirs?"

She shook her head. "Those blades are at home. This one is in honor of Nicolaa de la Haye, an Englishwoman from Lincolnshire."

"Who was also a knight?"

"Even better. Seven hundred years ago, she commanded hundreds of knights, men-at-arms, and infantrymen to successfully defend her castle from siege. More than once! Given the current situation, I felt following her precedent to be the most appropriate." Her voice turned dreamy. "How many warriors do you think I'll need to kill before I'm immortalized in history, too?"

Was it strange to wish she felt as warm toward him as she did about hatchet-wielding farm maidens?

"I don't think you need to worry about engineering a legacy," he told her. "You seem destined to be discussed in reverent tones centuries from now."

Just then, maids arrived with the tea service.

"Allow me to pour." Stephen placed her cup in the milk-dispensing device and pressed the lever.

As the machine worked, Elizabeth said, "The tea cakes look delicious. Perhaps tomorrow we can try the Scotch petticoat tails."

"I'll pass the recipe to the kitchen."

He also could not help but note that planning for tomorrow implied two things: One, that Elizabeth also doubted she would solve the treasure hunt between now and then, and two… that she looked forward to their meals together as much as Stephen did.

When it came to Elizabeth, he never knew what to expect with their conversations. She was the most brilliant berserker he had ever met. While his head was full of mathematics, her brain was practically bursting with esoteric facts on subjects that had never even crossed his mind.

Sometimes she acted as though this knowledge was a by-product of being a Wynchester. Of course she knew the mating habits of the great crested newt—she was Jacob's sister. Of course she knew the precise accents and linguistic quirks of every member of the House of Lords—she was Chloe's sister.

Other times, the random details she casually spouted were so quintessentially Elizabeth that it was impossible to pass her cleverness off as anyone else's influence. She somehow made her bloodlust seem charming.

"Do you read anything besides lurid accounts of war?" he asked.

She glanced over both shoulders and lowered her voice. "Sir Gareth Jallow. But don't tell my brother."

"I shall take your secret to my grave," said Stephen. "Is Sir Gareth also a medieval knight?"

Her eyes brightened. "I wish. No, all of Sir Gareth's jousts are performed with words. He's a renowned poet."

"And which of your brothers takes exception to renowned poets?"

"Jacob," she replied fondly. "Who is a poet of no acclaim whatsoever, primarily because he refuses to allow anyone to read his poems. Then again, what are you and I famous for?"

"You are unequivocably infamous," Stephen reminded her. "Whereas I have been forgotten completely, even in the town where I was born and raised. My own mother doesn't tell stories about me. I learned about my father passing because I still receive the local papers. My mother did not see fit to write."

"But that's horrible!" Elizabeth placed her hand over his and squeezed.

He shook his head. "It's all right."

"It's not all right," she said firmly. "And it is all right for you to admit when it's not all right."

He swallowed hard. "I don't miss my old life anymore. It never felt like home, and I've no desire to go back."

"I've a desire to go berserker on everyone who has ever hurt you," she muttered. "Out of respect, I'll spare your mother my sword… but she won't escape receiving a piece of my mind."

"She's old now. It's been decades. We're strangers to each other." He shrugged.

"Is that why you live alone, and pretend to enjoy the seclusion?" Elizabeth asked softly. "Because loneliness is easier than being rejected by someone you care about?"