Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Is she all right?” he asked, already putting his glass down and walking toward her.
I did not wish to pry and so I turned to face the stacks of books before me, lifting one to casually read, only to find it was written in Arabic…In fact all the books seemed to have come from the east. It was a massive collection, all in a variety of foreign languages, though there were bookmarks and notes in English in the margins of many of them.
“Your Highness.”
I turned back to Damon, who was partially out the door already. “I must tend to a matter momentarily. If you need anything—”
“I’m quite fine, thank you.”
He nodded before stepping out. When the doors closed, I placed my drink down and moved to the canvas. I lifted the sheet up gently. It was clearly unfinished—she’d begun painting some spots while the vast majority were still sketched…even still, I could see a wondrous talent. It was not just the image of her father that was striking but the whole cast of characters within the library. By their heights and number I could only assume the others were family as well. I noticed even the books upon the shelves were copied exactly as they appeared before my eyes. I stepped back to see the vantage from which she was creating, backing up so far I knocked into the one of the shelves and caused a few volumes to nearly fall.
Catching them, luckily, I started to put them back when I spotted a familiar book. Earlier this morning, I’d noticed Lady Hathor holding a book that looked not just like this but like several on the shelf. I should have left it be, but curiosity, maybe boredom, got the best of me.
On the first page, in the most delicate handwriting, was To my future love, know I do not speak well with words but with art.
I flipped to the next page to see drawings of herself, but that was not what was unusual. It was the partial figure beside her at a picnic. Everything, from the lace of her dress to the blades of grass, was drawn as if captured from real life, but next to her was only the start of a sketch of a person. Page after page showed her walking through London, at a dinner table, on a boat upon the river, and in every image, there were the faintest of lines drawn of another person meant to be there.
“What are you doing!”
I jumped at the rage within that voice. Turning toward the door, I found, staring at me in her familiar fashion of horror, none other than Lady Hathor.
Shit.
Hathor
I felt utterly bizarre trying to speak with any other gentlemen.
It was as if every conversation were nothing but dull flattery and repetitious observations on the weather. The longer I sought to engage with them the greater my frustration. It was odd, they were acting normally, properly, and yet—it displeased me. Desiring not to show that I was put out, I slowly withdrew from their company and excused myself to change out of my riding clothes. I came to the library seeking a new reference book only to find him…Prince Wilhelm…flipping through the pages of my previous work as though they were his own personal letters.
“I did not mean to pry,” he said as he snapped the book closed and hid it behind his back.
“Whether you meant to or not does not change the fact that you are prying,” I said as I rushed over to him, trying to get the book back.
He stepped out of my way, still holding the book. “So you admit they are yours?”
“Clearly they are not yours, so return it at once!”
He did not.
Instead, he still held the book away from me, grinning. “Is this what you believe love to be? Forcing a gentleman to accompany you on picnics and boat rides? You already have the image of your whole life set, you wish only to insert his face into your fantasy, it seems.”
“Fantasy? You believe picnics and boat rides to be things of fantasy?”
“I think them to be trivial attempts to appease women.” He chuckled and opened my book for me to see one page. “No man finds enjoyment in this and would only do it upon being forced.”
“Just because you are not a man who finds enjoyment in doing such things does not mean all men will not find enjoyment in them.” I tried once more to reach my sketchbook, this time jumping to take it from him. He jumped back…too far back, and knocked over my canvas, which fell back onto one of the chairs, the arm ripping a hole right through the center.
My mouth dropped open to make way for a scream that would not come. I could only stare in disbelief.