Page 43 of Once Upon a Midnight Dreary
“Where did you find it?”
“In the study.”
She recalled the expanse of bookshelves but hadn’t examined them that close when she was searching the desk.
“I can’t recall the last time I read a book,” she mused.
“Pity that.”
She glanced at him to see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.It was the first time she’d seen him actually smile.
“I love a good tale,” he said.
“Oh?”She was intrigued.“What’s your favorite?”
“Tales of high adventure,” he said.
“And perhaps swashbuckling pirates?”she teased.
“Perhaps,” he said.“I rather likedThe Corsair.”
She tilted her head.“By Lord Byron?”
He nodded once.
She recognized the title, though she had never read it.A tale of adventure and revenge.Romantic and dark.But as she considered the name and its author, a small knot formed in her chest.Hadn’t that been published over a century ago?
He went on, describing other books he’d read.Tales she vaguely remembered from dusty schoolroom lists or antique bookshops.All of them, evidently, housed within the manor’s walls.
If he had truly been here for years—decades, even—then perhaps reading was his only escape.A portal to other lives, other places.A distraction from the oppressive quiet of Ravenfell’s long-forgotten halls.
She leaned back, letting his voice wrap around her like warmth against the cold storm beyond the window.He spoke with reverence, with the quiet delight of someone who had few joys left.There was something beautiful, and unbearably sad, about the way his eyes lit when he mentioned a favorite tale.
And yet, with every word, that knot in her chest pulled tighter.
As the storm pounded the roof and lightning flashed in the windows, she forgot about haunted passageways and aged portraits and the cackle of a disembodied voice.There was only the two of them, and she found she quite liked this part of him that adored fine literature.
A clap of thunder startled her, making her head snap up.
“Just thunder,” he murmured.“Sounds like the storm is almost over.”
Indeed, it sounded as though the rain slowed.A distant clap of thunder.A faint flash of lightning.And then she stifled a yawn.And though she was tired, she refused to leave his side.Being in his presence calmed her, comforted her, made her want to stay by his side.As she listened to him talk—he had never said so many words—she sensed they’d made a connection.Their relationship had taken a bit of a turn.
She liked it.
She liked him.
“I’ve bored you with my fictional tales,” he said when he saw her try to hide her yawn.
“Not at all.”Her eyes were heavy, the fatigue pressing through her.
“I’ve prattled on long enough, I should think.Tell me something of yourself.”
“Me?”The word squeaked out of her.
“Yes, you.”He paused then, contemplation crossing his face.“What happened to your parents?”
The question surprised her, making her wince.
