Page 28 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

A ghost?

No, that was silly. Now her frightening thoughts were starting to spiral.

But the singing grew louder, the voice stronger. It sounded like it was coming from one of the shelves.

With her heart pounded a rapid beat, she took a step toward it. Deeper and deeper into the library she went until she found the source of the voice.

It was a book.

With every stanza, the cover and pages flapped in concert with the words.

“It’s…singing,” she said on a rough whisper.

The singing stopped. “Of course, I’m singing, dear child,” the book replied in a falsetto.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Y-you heard me.”

“Yes, I heard you. I’m not deaf.” This time the book sang it in a deeper voice, the cover and pages flapping with its response.

How curious.

Unable to resist, she picked up the book. It was a biography about an opera singer. She thumbed through the pages with interest then replaced it in its place on the shelf.

“Did you not find anything of interest, dear child?” it sang.

She snickered, amused by the response. “Not this time.”

As she started to leave, a belch of mist emitted from one of the books on the other end. Interested, she hurried toward it. As she approached, there was the distinct sound of a train chugging along on a track. She snatched up the book and read the title—History of the Steam Engine.More mist—no, steam!—emitted from between the pages.

Fascinating.

Birdsong came from a book about an aviary. War cries emitted from another book that told the history of a war in a place she had never heard of. Construction sounds came from another describing how castles were built. A howl from a book about wolves got her attention long enough to page through it. And on and on she went, discovering all the peculiar and wonderful—enchanted—books in Leopold’s library.

At last, she found herself standing among the furniture under the stained-glass window and gazed up at it. As she peered at the thorn-ensnared rose, she noticed movement. As though the rose wanted to bloom in full but couldn’t because of the thorny vines constricting it. The silvery thorns themselves seemed to shimmer under the pale light seeping through the colored glass.

When the door to the library opened, she spun around, her heart in her throat. Then surprise took over as she watched Leopold Thornhurst push a polished tea cart into the library, the wheels squeaking as they turned. He halted when he noticed her standing across the room under the stained-glass window.

They stared at each other across the expanse of the room. Her heart beat wildly. And though she could not see his features, those pale brown eyes were quiet distinct in the shadows. There was something inherently wild about them. Something that made her pause and tip her head to the side as she gazed at him and tried to work out where she’d seen eyes like that before.

“Tea, Miss Rinaldi?” he said, his voice echoing in the room.

Without waiting for her reply, he wheeled the cart toward her. When he stopped, he reached for the delicate porcelain teapot and poured the dark brew into one of the cups perched on a matching saucer. The cart also had a tray full of small sandwiches, delectable tiny cakes, biscuits, and scones.

“Did you make any progress?”

She flushed at his question. How could she tell him the truth? That she was ready to bolt from the castle and never return? Then that she was enamored with his odd collection of books.

He handed her the cup. When he did, their fingers brushed. It left a tingling sensation zipping through her. He poured himself a cup and then motioned to the seating area. He perched on the edge of one of the chairs, holding the delicate cup between his large hands.

She hadn’t noticed his hands until then. Perfect, strong hands with long, fine-boned fingers. She took a sip of tea to calm her raging nerves.

“Would you like the truth?” she asked, and her voice was stronger than she expected.

He peered at her, indecision in his eyes, and then lifted one dark brow. It was hard not to notice the rakish look he gave her with his mussed hair, as though he’d been shoving his hand through it. One out-of-place strand fell over his forehead.

“I hired you, so, yes, I would like the truth. Is it a difficult text to translate?”

Bella pressed her lips together as she tried to decide how to answer. It appeared he expected her to tell him she was unable to translate the book when, honestly, she was terrified of the books he’d given her as a resource.

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