Chapter 16 #2
I turn down the east corridor, going in the direction of the older wing, and I hear it. Laughter.
The children’s section is tucked in a back corner. When I round the last bookshelf, I stop.
She’s on the floor, her legs crossed, surrounded by seven children of various ages, holding open a picture book about a bear who loses his button.
She’s reading aloud, doing voices, completely absorbed.
The children lean into her, some with fingers in mouths, one small girl with her head on Mable’s knee.
She doesn’t see me. There’s no awareness of her being observed, no calculation of how this looks. Just her. Genuine. Present. Real in a way nothing else in my life has ever been.
That panic I was feeling begins to drain away, replaced by something heavier. Need. I fucking need her. The certainty that I would burn this entire building down if it meant keeping her.
Mable turns the page, all smiles, the private ones she thinks no one sees, and I feel it in my chest.
“Caldwell.” Cordelia’s voice comes from behind me, too fucking close. Annoyance fills me at her interruption. “There you are. Your mother—”
I don’t turn. “Give me a moment.”
“Caldwell, this is important. The ambassador—”
“It is being handled.” I finally look at her.
Her jaw tightens; that perfection she always wears is cracking.
Something flickers in her eyes—frustration or something colder.
Mable might be trying to give Cordelia a chance while I’m not paying attention, but the way she’s acting has my guard going up.
“She’s charming the staff, yes. But this—” She gestures at Mable, at the children.
“This isn’t queenly, Caldwell. This isn’t—”
“I know exactly what it is.” I keep my voice low and controlled not to give anything away. “It’s why I chose her. It’s why she will be my wife some day soon.”
Cordelia stares at me. I watch her compose herself, and that mask falls back into place. “Your mother is asking for you.”
“I’ll be there shortly. I don’t want to be interrupted again.”
She leaves. I don’t watch her go. Cordelia and I are going to need to have another talk. One where I don’t hold back. But that is for another day.
I put all my attention back onto Mable as she finishes the story. The children applaud, small hands smacking together. She laughs, delighted, and does a playful bow.
When she stands back up, I catch her eye; her smile falters, only slightly. Her hands come together in front of her, and she starts to wring her fingers together. It’s a tell of hers I’ve picked up on. Self-consciousness is creeping in.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” I say, making my way over to her, needing to touch her. The children have already scattered. “You disappeared.”
“I got lost.” She brushes dust from her skirt. “In a good way. This place is incredible. I’ve never been to this side before. Did you know they have original—”
“I thought you’d left.” The words come out rough, unplanned. “I couldn’t find you. I thought—”
Her expression shifts. Softens. “Wells.” She steps closer, her hand finding my arm. “I’m right here.”
“I know.” I cover her hand with mine. “I know. I just—” I stop. I can’t explain the panic, the irrational fear, or how thoroughly she’s become necessary. “Come. Let me show you the archives.”
“I’d love that.” She takes my hand, and we walk through the older corridors, her questions filling the spaces between us.
We discuss the treaty dispute. The neighboring country’s claim.
How the original documents were scattered across three archives, none of them complete, and the disputed boundary lines.
“It’s a research problem,” she says slowly, and I can see her mind working, the way it does when she’s organizing information. “You need the original treaty language. The full text, not excerpts.” I’m not sure she’s really asking, more clarifying.
“We’ve tried. The estate archives have fragments. The national library has others. No one has the complete document.”
“What about the estate archives? You mentioned—”
“Thousands of boxes. Uncatalogued. My great-grandfather’s obsession, never organized.”
She stops walking and turns to face me. “Wells. That’s kind of my thing. Research. Archives. Finding needles in haystacks.” She appears already giddy about this.
“Yes,” I say. I can never tell her no. “Tomorrow. I’ll show you.”
“Yay.” She does a little bounce. I don’t need to get her jewels, just old dusty boxes to make her happy.
“Come on.” I take her hand again.
“What are we doing?” she asks when I don’t go back the way we’d come. Instead, I pull out my phone and send Jenson a message to pull around to the south side of the building.
We reach the car. The drive back is quiet, her hand in mine, her thumb tracing patterns against my palm.
I can tell she’s already making a plan, and so am I, and it has nothing to do with anything but her.
I watch her profile and think about the panic I’d felt.
It had been all-consuming. I never panic.
In fact, I’m best under pressure, but not with Mable.
She catches me watching and gives me a shy smile. “What?”
“Nothing.” I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. “Everything.”
When we get back to the estate, I lead Mable up the stairs, down the corridor, and into our rooms.
“Wells—”
I shut the door and pull her to me. The need that’s been building since I lost her in that crowd, since I realized what I would sacrifice to keep her.
“I need you,” I say against her mouth. “Now.”
She doesn’t ask questions. Just melts into me, fingers in my hair, and I carry her to the bed. Mable, always having just what I need.