The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (ebook offline reader TXT) 📗

and entered the tower library with a list of words she’d compiled, in hopes of duplicating her success with Max’s request. The books whispered and rustled at her entrance, but none sang out with the information she needed. Sitting at the desk at the foot of the stairs, she concentrated on each word individually, listening for the whispers to grow louder. They didn’t.

How had she heard Max’s needs but not her own? What would happen if a letter writer requested information, and she couldn’t provide it? What was the purpose of a library one couldn’t access? She didn’t even know where to place the towers of unshelved volumes.

Perhaps she couldn’t hear the books unless the person asking for information was with her. That was a truly appalling thought since Malcolms were now scattered around the world. They couldn’t possibly travel all the way here with the simple questions that they expected their librarian to answer. And since Lydia was here and she couldn’t answer her own questions—well, that theory didn’t hold much water.

Picking up Mr. C’s final journal, praying he provided information she hadn’t yet found, Lydia had dinner sent to her study. She’d rather not face Max and his mother’s strange fantasy. Perhaps if they weren’t together, Lady Agnes’s sanity might return.

Marriage! To Max! Inconceivable. Well, as a fantasy, it was rather entertaining. If she were to marry, she’d like a husband as large as Max. Single men as physically superb as he were hard to find. Ones of intelligence—even more difficult. And after his kisses—she was admittedly curious about bedplay. But certainly not to the extent that she’d marry a man who would leave her alone until he died in a foreign jungle, where she wouldn’t even know he was gone until possibly years later.

Glad to have that matter straightened out, Lydia tried reading Mr. C’s journal to see how he’d learned to be a librarian, but he seemed to find the task as natural as breathing and hadn’t required lessons.

He offered no solution to Lydia’s predicament. Worse, he made it clear that a librarian simply could not leave the library for any extended period of time. He’d given up the love of his life when she refused to stay in this cold and drafty place and had returned home to England. He’d loved his books more than her.

Lydia had long since grown accustomed to the notion of a lonely spinster’s life, but she felt a little sorry for Mr. C. He could have married had he wanted.

Finally admitting the answer to her predicament wasn’t in this journal, Lydia carried her pens and papers to the small guest parlor. Mr. Folkston had informed her that Lady Agnes had decided to retire after dinner, so Lydia and Max should be uninterrupted.

Max was already there, pacing the far end of the room as usual. He’d really believed she was like all the other silly girls who’d rushed at him. That hurt.

He stopped pacing when she entered and offered a grim smile. “How long has my mother been like this?”

That wasn’t an easier topic. “Never. She and Lady Gertrude always sound a little dotty when they’re together because they finish each other’s sentences and thoughts and no one can quite follow. But not once has anyone hinted that they might be insane.” Lydia took a seat at the table she’d been using to write his journal. The papers had been abandoned these last days.

“So perhaps my aunt keeps Mother balanced, and she slips off into fantasies when she’s alone? Then I must pray nothing happens to Aunt Gertrude!” Max flung himself into an easy chair, sprawling his long legs in front of him. “I will need to hire a companion to look after them.”

Lydia tapped her pen on the table as she thought about it, but shook her head. “No, they would not like that at all. And there really is no spare room in the school. You will have to rely on the teachers and the rest of us to look after them after you’ve traipsed off again.”

He grimaced. “Which makes me feel an utter cad, but my staying here would solve nothing—especially if it inspires impossible fantasies. So let’s not speak of it right now.”

“Would you prefer to speak of why you fled when you saw me at your mother’s house?” she asked bluntly. “You knew I expected to return here with you.”

“Natural reflex.” He rubbed his face. “It’s embarrassing, admittedly. But you were there with them, and I relied on you to be sensible. Instead, you let the hordes descend.”

“They did the same when I knocked,” she said dryly. “They’re bored little girls. I had meant to stop them, but I was too late.”

He looked up with what appeared to be hope in his eyes. “Then maybe it’s not me?”

“Oh, it’s you, all right,” Lydia was forced to admit. “They hid from me. You, they meant to swarm.”

He nodded. “It’s hopeless. I suppose I must thank you for bringing my mother here. I need to send letters to everyone I ever knew and pray at least one will stand up for me. I counted on Mother writing all our relations. They would respond to her far better than to me.”

“She’ll happily send wedding invitations.” Relieved that he believed her, Lydia managed a smile. “It is an innovative means of obtaining a response.”

Max gave a heartfelt sigh. “I am almost tempted. Marriage would solve many things, like what to do with my sons when they need a home. And you are the only female I’ve ever met who I can trust not to make demands or push me over a balcony or otherwise have dramatic fits when I cannot be what you wish me to be.”

Lydia suspected, despite his confidence otherwise, that she’d frequently be tempted to push him off the tower. Max was too accustomed to doing things his own way. “Has someone pushed you over a balcony?” she asked with interest.

He shrugged. “They tried. I don’t push