Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
In the end, they’re all about love—finding it, losing it, longing for it, regretting it, wishing it had come along in a different form at a different time or with a different person.
I’ve come to peace with the fact that I’ll never get to experience romantic love firsthand—it wouldn’t be fair to the person I loved, and Andrew is far too intimidating for me to even imagine loving him—but I still want to unravel the mystery.
And this might be my best chance.
The Von Bergens aren’t old-fashioned. They’re elegant and worldly and educated, absolutely the kind of people who might have a few racy books mixed in with the thought-provoking biographies and classic fiction.
So I creep down darkened hallways, hiding behind a statue in an alcove with my heart in my throat as two softly whispering servants walk by. When they’ve gone, I try every door I pass until one opens with a puff of air that carries the smell of old paper, furniture polish, and pages turned thousands of times.
I slip into the library and close the heavy door behind me, pausing to allow my eyes to adjust to the moonlight cutting through the large window on the other side of the room. After a moment, I can see well enough to pick my way around the plush furniture to a desk on my left.
I can’t risk turning on the lights, but I need some sort of illumination in order to read the titles on the spines. I open one drawer after another, finding a collection of pens and pencils, a stationery set, a miniature billiards game, and then, in the last drawer on the bottom left, a box of candles.
Secretly thrilled to be forced to light a candle like an eighteenth-century heroine in a gothic novel, I fetch matches from the mantel on the fireplace and light one thin taper, holding my hand in front of it to protect the flame as I go in search of the fiction section.
I find it after only a few moments, excitement building as I discover it takes up an entire wall of the massive room and that there are oodles of newer books mixed in with classic titles. I knew Princess Felicity, Prince Andrew’s mother, was a reader. I could just tell. Readers can spot readers. They have a curious gleam in their eyes, a spark of aliveness that non-readers often lack.
I might be cursed to die young, but it could be so much worse. At least I wasn’t cursed with an idle mind or a shriveled, unfeeling heart. I think and feel so much it hurts sometimes, but it’s a sweet ache.
I’d rather be sad than feel nothing at all.
And I’d rather know what I’m missing than live in the dark.
I spot the title on the fourth shelf and my stomach flips—Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. If that isn’t what I’m looking for, I’ll eat the rest of this candle for breakfast.
I reach up, hooking my fingers around the top of the hard spine, but before I can slide it from between two other volumes by Lawrence—Selected Poems and The Rainbow—the candle drips, the wax rolling over the backs of my knuckles, scalding my skin.
I flinch and cry out, dropping both the candle and book onto the carpet.
The book flops open to an illustration that leaves no doubt this is precisely the sort of book I’ve been looking for. The candle flickers as it hits the floor, but then the flame steadies and continues to burn.
I stand frozen for a moment, clutching my stinging hand to my chest as I watch the flame leap, casting shadows on the picture of a man and woman in bed, the man settled between the woman’s legs. But then the fire flares brighter, and a scent like burning hair rises from the carpet, jolting me into motion.
“Fire,” I whisper, panic clawing at my throat as I spin, searching for an extinguisher or a pitcher of water or something to throw over the flames.
But there’s nothing.
Nothing but more carpet and books that will serve as tinder if I don’t put this out fast.
“Fire!” I repeat in a louder squeak, torn between the logical urge to run for help and the illogical certainty that I’ll be in terrible trouble if I’m caught sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night. My mother warned me no less than ten thousand times not to embarrass her while we were visiting the Von Bergens, and setting fire to the castle while looking for sex books absolutely qualifies as inappropriate.
Pulse racing and hands flapping uselessly, I race back around the desk to the overstuffed furniture, hoping to discover a blanket or afghan, but the leather couches are bare.
“How can you have a library without blankets?” I ask, my breath coming so fast that my head starts to spin.