Page 24 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

What had she gotten herself into?

For a moment, she wanted to turn and run away, return to the cheerful warmth of Hawthorne Hall. But as the thought crossed her mind, the door opened and a tall, wisp of a man stood in the threshold.

Black hair was slicked back from his high forehead. Dark, baleful eyes peered at her from under two bushy eyebrows. He had a hawkish nose, thin pale lips, and high, severe cheekbones. His face was pale—as though he had been carved from marble. He wore the livery of a butler, stood straight and stiff, and peered at her with curiosity.

“Miss Rinaldi, I presume?” he asked in a pinched voice.

“Yes, I am.” Her voice was strong, making her sound more confident than she felt.

He stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. With her heart pounding a wicked beat against the book she clutched to her chest, she stepped inside the cavernous grand entry hall. Her feet were silent on the black-and-white checkered tile. Dimly lit, blue-flamed candelabras hovered in the air above their heads illuminating the room in an otherworldly glow. The ribbed arched ceiling stretched high above and was painted with murals of frolicking imps among dark clouds threaded with gold and copper. In the heart of the castle, the grand staircase that rose before her and then split off in each direction—one to the right, one to the left—disappearing into shadowy halls unseen from the entry.

“Wait here, if you please,” the man said. His feet were silent on the tile as he disappeared down a hallway. Overhead, one of the floating candelabras followed him.

She remained where she was, standing stiff and eyeing her surroundings. Somewhere deep in the chasm of the castle, a clock chimed the hour. In the shadows, it felt as though she was being watched which did nothing to calm her already ragged nerves.

Finally, she heard footsteps approaching. The floating candelabra came back into view and suddenly, there he was. Leopold Thornhurst, striking in his classic good looks and the pale circle of the blue-white light that followed him.

He wore a long charcoal velvet coat, the collar turned slightly up, its silver buttons dulled with age. Beneath it, a midnight waistcoat embroidered with a barely visible pattern of thorny vines shimmered only when the light caught it just so.

His shirt was crisp but collarless, open at the throat—a nobleman’s elegance worn with the carelessness of someone who no longer bothered to impress. Though he carried himself with the air of a man who once ruled ballrooms, there was something in the way the shadows clung to him that whispered of solitude and sorrow. Something she had sensed when she first met him.

But now, that sorrow was pushed aside as his pale brown gaze landed on hers and his face broke into a welcoming smile.

“Miss Rinaldi.” He reached for her hand, took it, and pressed a warm kiss on the back if it. Even through the lace of her glove, his breath was warm and sweet. It sent a tremble of delight through her. “I’m glad to see you again.”

Her breath shuddered out of her. “I apologize for being late. I was delayed this morning.” There was no need to tell him why. Her father’s affairs were no one’s business.

He glanced around as though looking for something. “Your bags?”

“Oh,” she said on a breath. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I must return to home this evening.”

A flicker of disappointment flashed through his eyes and then he concealed it. “Your father will be wanting your safe return. I’ll have the carriage return you at sundown. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the library so you can get started.”

“Thank you.”

He started down the hallway, those ominous floating candelabras following. She fell in step behind him, her heart still jangling in her chest. And every step she took was another step toward the unknown, toward uncertainty. She wasn’t sure she should be here. She wasn’t sure she should have accepted the job to translate the odd book. She wasn’t even sure if she shouldhavethe book. It had crossed her mind to leave it and return to Hawthorne and never think about it again.

He turned down a hallway and headed for soaring double wood doors. Along the walls were oil paintings with watchful eyes that seemed to follow her every movement. She was suddenly very glad she wasn’t staying in this strange place overnight.

The hallway was sparsely furnished. A low bench under an oversized painting of a dignified older man in a navy waistcoat with silver buttons and a white cravat at his throat. Next to the bench, a tall vase in moonlight with the oddest arrangement she’d ever seen—roses the color of spilled ink, their blooms full. The petals looked soft as velvet. Moving along the hallway, there was a chair here and there, as if the walk to the library was taxing and someone needed to pause and rest before finishing the trek.

She had to admit, it was quite possibly the longest hallway she had ever seen.

At the doors, he pushed them open with a creak, as though they were rusty from nonuse, and stepped inside. He paused inside the threshold and waited. She followed him through the door. When she stepped inside the library, she came to a standstill and gaped, a small gasp escaping her.

She had never seen so many books in all her life. Books that soared upward so high, there was a winding iron staircase on one end that led to the upper level. On another end, a sliding ladder that glided the length of that end of the room. There were so many books, so many shelves, she had to tilt her head back to see them all. It wasn’t enough every wall was lined with books, there were free-standing shelves, too. Tucked between a couple of them was a long wood table with four chairs, an unlit candelabra in the center.

The domed ceiling was painted a pale blue with floating clouds appearing to move across it buffeted by an invisible breeze. Hanging from the center, another one of the blue-flamed candelabras giving off enough light to see the shapes and colors of each and every leather-bound volume.

In front of her, across the great expanse of the room, a lancet window rose tall and elegant, the arc narrow and towering with stained glass that was like a blade of colorful light nestled into the cold stone wall. Faint sunlight struggled through the panes of colored glass, casting odd shards of crimson, violet, and emerald across the marble floor.

The design in the center was a single deep red rose, blooming, its petals unfurling in flawless detail. Thorny vines curled around it, twisting in spirals with their glass thorns etched in glistening silver. Some reached toward the edge of the window. Others curled protectively around the bloom—embracing and imprisoning it.

She had seen this image before. It was emblazoned on the cover of the book cradling in her arms. She gaped at it a long moment, her mind trying to make sense of what her eyes saw. She blinked and looked away, deciding it was nothing more than her vivid imaginations.

A comfortable seating area formed a cozy conversation area in front of the window—a loveseat and two wing-backed chairs. Between them, a low table. Underneath the furniture, a garnet plush rug that looked so thick and so inviting, she wanted to slip off her shoes and dig in her toes.

Leopold remained standing at the door, watching her as she gaped at the room, as though he were pleased with her reaction to his massive collection.

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