Twenty-Four

Peter stared at the page for a long moment. Reread the last few paragraphs. The last paragraphs. Or he thought they were. Endings . . . endings were work for him. Even when he knew exactly how he wanted them to happen, he had a tendency to rush through those closing pages, which meant having to ball them up and toss them in the grate and write the last chapter over.

Not this time. He hoped. He’d been deliberate. Careful. Largely because he wasn’t entirely sure how the last scene would have to play out. Locryn and Thomas—should their friendship be back on solid ground, or would a bit of quaking make the next book better? Then Locryn and Rosita—he was letting her get away. Knowing well he shouldn’t but doing it anyway. Because he loved her. And she . . . she was tossing that charming smile over her shoulder at him.

A promise for another match someday. Another game.

And Locryn, the fool, was looking forward to it.

Peter steepled his fingers and rested his lips against them, staring at that final sentence. Was it good enough, this story? This villainess-heroine? Or would his publisher declare it rubbish? His readers hate it?

He breathed out a prayer and breathed in peace. He’d spent a fair bit of time on his knees this morning, asking for God’s guidance as he typed these last pages. He would trust that he’d written what he should have. And that if it could be better, his editor would tell him so.

Knock, knock, knock. “Pete? Can I come in, old boy?”

And Gryff. Gryff would tell him so too, if he had time in his schedule to read it before Peter had to ship it off next week to his publisher. He settled his fingers on the keys. “Come in.” Typed those two most beautiful words: The End.

Gryff opened the door just enough to slide in, then closed it behind him. Rubbed his hands together. “Well? Have you finished it yet?”

“Just.” In proof, he pulled the sheet from the typewriter and set it, just so, facedown on the stack of its comrades.

“Cutting it rather close this time, aren’t you?” But Gryff was smiling as he came over to peer into the drawer at the sheets that had multiplied several times over since he saw that meager stack with which Peter had come home from London.

Peter grinned. “Genius takes . . . time.”

Gryff snorted and made himself comfortable in Father’s leather chair by the unlit hearth. “Jenny sent me over. She said you need to join me and Santo at the pub tonight—talk’s been of nothing but this ultimatum, and word of Serbia’s response ought to be coming any minute. When it comes over the wire, someone will announce it there. You need to be there. With me, with us. With everyone.”

Dominoes. Peter sighed and slid the drawer closed. Then opened it again. Drew out the thick pile of pages, straightened them, and put them back in their drawer right-side up. He’d read the thing tomorrow, into Thursday if it took that long. Correct. Tweak. “I had hoped . . . had prayed. But war—it will be here. Soon.”

“I know.” He did, his tone said as much. Said he felt the strain of it. “Santo wants to join the military once it’s official. Officer training, he hopes.”

Peter nodded, searching his friend’s face. And didn’t much like what he saw. Even as he admired it. And wondered if he should mirror it. “You will . . . too?”

Gryff sighed. “Jenny doesn’t want me to, of course. And I doubt I will right away—let all the young pups eager for conflict get out of the way first, see if perhaps they can win it quickly. But if it lasts a year . . . I don’t know how I could do otherwise. How I would look myself in the mirror if I didn’t, when I am able.”

Peter rubbed at his nose. He wasn’t sure he was able. He’d probably be no good on the front lines—he wasn’t like Prince Edward, full of the certainties of youth. But surely there was some role he could play. Some way he could serve. He had a decent brain, it ought to be put to use for England somehow. Preferably in a way that required little by way of verbal communication. Perhaps it would involve sitting in an office most of the day, alone.

He would pray for guidance there. And the Lord would give it, as He always did. “I’ll come. To . . . tonight.”

“Good.” Though Gryff grinned, it was still tight around the edges. “Now. When can I read this book of yours?”

“Soon. I have to . . . have to correct it first.” He looked again at the drawer. At the lock, with its key sticking out of it. From habit, he took it out and slid it into his pocket. And stared at that little metal hole that didn’t mean all that much. “I’m going to tell her.”

Silence greeted him, so he looked up to see that Gryff was just giving him that look. The one that said he hadn’t enough information to make an educated response.

Peter leaned back in his chair. “Rosemary. I’m going to . . . to tell her about this. Who I . . . who I am.” He would hand her the manuscript. Ask her to read it. To give him her honest opinion.

Gryff’s breath wheezed out. “Are you sure that’s wise? You’ve scarcely known her two months. She could go and blab it all about England. Ruin the secrecy you’ve gone to such great lengths to preserve.”

She could. “She won’t.”

“Pete.” Pushing to his feet, Gryff gestured, not unlike the way he did when delivering a final argument before a judge. “I like her. Jenny and Wyn adore her. The whole town is fond of her—but there’s a difference between trusting her with your library and trusting her with your very identity.”

Perhaps. But there seemed very little difference between trusting her with his identity and trusting her with his heart. And as he’d written Locryn saying good-bye to Rosita, felt his pain, he’d known he couldn’t just say good-bye to Rosemary. He couldn’t.

He reached for the jacket draped over his chair. “We had better . . . better get along. Did you drive?”

“You’re not just going to ignore me, old boy. Not this time. It’s too important. If you tell her about this—”

“I wasn’t . . . asking your opinion.”

“Made up your mind, have you?” For a moment, he wavered. Peter watched him as he rocked a bit, his face alternating between the desire to argue and the instinct to trust. Trust won, with an exasperated sigh. “Stubborn as a mule. Just for that, I’m not sending your answer to your cousins until next week.”

He hadn’t yet? Peter bit back the shout that wanted to slip out. He’d told Gryff on Friday to do it straightaway. Before war could be declared and things would get more complicated. It already ran the risk of getting all fouled up. He let only a low, frustrated “Gryff!” slip out.

Gryff, the jester, grinned. “Got you. I sent it Friday night, as you requested. And also as you requested, instructions on flushing out who AGD is. Though I seriously doubt they’re anyone to worry about.”

He hoped so. But couldn’t quite rid himself of that niggle at the base of his neck that said otherwise. Scooping up his hat from the corner of his desk, he then turned to the library door and pulled it open. Rosemary was at the window again, which made him smile. “Any . . . princes out there?”

She ducked back in with a chuckle. “Not today. Though one never knows when King George himself might come strolling by, I suppose.” She took in the jacket, the hat, and lifted her brows. “Going out?”

“With Gryff. To the . . . the pub.”

“Ah.” She nodded, and the sobriety in her gaze said she could guess at why. “That’s a good idea. Want me to let Grammy know you’ll not be here for dinner?”

“If you . . . if you would.”

“Certainly.” Though she screwed up her face a bit as she moved closer. “You’ve got your tie all askew. You can’t go into the pub like that. May I?”

She was already reaching for him. His “Of course” was superfluous. And he could only pray she didn’t notice the way his breath caught when her hands went to work there at his throat. She didn’t even touch him, just his tie. And still his pulse kicked up. But then, she was standing close. And right in front of him, rather than at his side. He could just lean over and kiss her, if he were brave enough. Slip an arm around her waist and . . .

“There we are.” She stepped back again with a satisfied nod and smiled up at him, clearly oblivious to how close she’d come to being kissed.

Or how close she’d come to him seriously considering it, at any rate.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Do you . . . need anything? F-From the . . . village?”

Now she frowned. Naturally, she never missed a stutter any more than Gryff did. “No. Are you all right?”

He sighed. “Just . . . anxious. For the news.”

“Oh.” Her fingers caught his, tangled with them, and made his breath tangle up again. “Don’t be, Peter. Everyone who counts knows where you stand. What you stand for.”

Before he could lay hold of a response, a cleared throat from the doorway to his study interrupted. Pointedly. Gryff, under his scowl, looked decidedly amused. “Better hurry, old boy. Santo will be there any minute.” He nodded at Rosemary. “Evening, Miss Gresham.”

“Mr. Penrose.” She let go of Peter’s hand, but not until after another squeeze. “Have a good evening. And bring me the news when you get back, if you would.”

He could only nod. And turn. And follow Gryff back into and through his office, closing both his doors behind him.

Gryff was chuckling as they headed out the main hall toward the front doors. “Peter has a crush,” he delivered in a singsong more suitable to his daughter.

“Stop it.” Peter smacked him with his hat. And then put it on his head. “I do not.”

Crush didn’t begin to cover it.

Rosemary waited until she heard the telltale clamor in the kitchen. The laughter from Kerensa and Treeve, the deep voice of Mr. Teague, the sweet insistence of Grammy. Those who lived off the property had left. The rest were all gathered around the big wooden table, ready to share their meal.

Mrs. Teague had already delivered her a tray. It sat right where she’d left it.

Rosemary couldn’t eat. Not now.

She waited until she was sure they were all settled. And then she slid on silent feet over to the door to the study and put her hand on the knob.

It didn’t want to turn. Not the knob—her hand. It didn’t—she didn’t want to take this final step. It was different, somehow, than looking through his library. His boxes in the attic. He’d given her permission for those—eventually.

But she’d done it all with the intention of betraying him. The damage was already done. She had to see it through.

Still, she had to squeeze her eyes shut. “Forgive me.” That whisper may have been aimed at Peter . . . or perhaps at his God.

She sucked in a breath, turned the knob, and followed the swing of the door into his study.

It looked as it always did—an utter ruin. Books and paper everywhere, cups with tea dregs and plates with crumbs. As always, the only clear spot on the desk was the typewriter, where she’d left that first note her first day.

She owed him another. But how could she write to him, asking him all the questions on her heart, when she was about to intrude upon his sanctum?

“To help him,” she told the typewriter. “To prove him innocent.”

The typewriter just stared at her.

So long as it didn’t tattle on her. After taking note of the position of the chair, she sat down in it and surveyed the drawers. Reached for the one on her right. It slid easily open, despite the lock on its front.

Paper inside, to be sure. Familiar paper, many of the edges ragged from where she’d torn it from her notebook. She reached in and pulled out the stack. Seventy sheets of it—one for each day she’d been here. He’d kept them, all of them.

Of course he did—Peter never threw out a letter, that was why his attic was so full of them it was a wonder the floor didn’t cave in.

But he’d not relegated them to a box, like the rest. What did that mean? Anything?

She bent back over the drawer, but the only other thing within it was some unused paper. The drawer beneath had an assortment of paper clips and rubber bands. The bottom had a mish-mosh of pages scribbled all over in Peter’s hand, in that gibberish that had stymied her so until she’d found the journals.

Her lips quirked up. She could read it now, but her glances told her that it was nothing beyond what she’d come to expect from him—notes on things he didn’t want to forget, or on history he had apparently found interesting for one reason or another.

The middle drawer, long and slender, under the typewriter had two new ribbons for that machine, and an assortment of pens.

She reached for the top left drawer, tugged. It stayed resolutely closed.

Her breath leaked out. She’d known he locked up something in here—she’d heard him with the key. Obviously she’d found it. And obviously she would have to open it. But first she went through the other drawers, neither of which offered anything other than what one would expect to find in a desk. Back to that top one.

She stared at it, stared until she stopped seeing the drawer and saw her family instead. Then she drew out the pick she’d slid from handbag to pocket this morning and bent down.

It only took a few seconds—it wasn’t much of a lock. A few seconds, a soft click, and then one tug.

Paper, in a stack so neat it didn’t seem to belong here amid all the chaos. Paper, with a page on top nearly blank, but for a few centered words.

The Deepest Darkness

A Novel

by Branok Hollow

For a second—one second—she thought he must know Hollow after all. He’d written to him, he’d gotten a response, made friends as he so easily did through pen and paper, and Hollow had sent him something to read.

One second. Then she realized what an idiotic thought that was.

She reached in with the utmost care and pulled out the stack. The manuscript. That was what they called them, wasn’t it? For lack of other space, she put it on her lap and lifted that first page off. Saw Chapter One in the center, and then Argentina below it.

Her eyes went further, unable to help themselves. Locryn James stood outside the tavern and wondered that the Amazonian night didn’t swallow it whole.

She puffed out a breath and leaned back. Squeezed her eyes shut. Of course. It made complete sense. That other world he lived in—a fictional one. One he crafted carefully so he could transport readers away. With Locryn James, the stalwart adventurer.

Written by Peter Holstein, the recluse.

Everything fell into place. The subtle teases from Penrose when he complimented another writer. The papers they would occasionally pass between them without a word. Peter’s eloquence, especially on matters of fiction. The way he took such joy in talking about “hypothetical situations,” as he called them.

“Oh, blast.” The things she’d said about his villain that day on the way to Marazion! She groaned and squeezed her eyes all the tighter. She never would have said such things if she’d known she was talking to the author!

Well, perhaps she would have. But she wouldn’t have been so glib about it.

Probably.

Shaking her head at herself, she forced her eyes back open—but returned that cover sheet to its place. She wouldn’t read any more. She wouldn’t. It was enough that she knew. Enough that she could report to Mr. V that . . .

But she couldn’t tell Mr. V, could she? Peter had obviously gone to the utmost trouble to keep his pen name a secret. How could she betray that? It would destroy him. And could destroy his career, if the wrong someone got hold of it first and spun it the wrong way.

And Mr. V, she knew, was the wrongest of someones.

She reached back into the drawer for an envelope on the bottom. It was addressed to Penrose, to his office in town. From a publishing company in London.

This she pulled out, sending her eyes over the letter within. Or perhaps a contract. It was for the sixth novel of Branok Hollow, to be delivered no later than August 15, 1914.

Two weeks. Was that even time enough for it to get safely there? What would happen if it were late?

She slid the letter back into the envelope. The envelope back into the drawer. The manuscript back in overtop it. For a moment, she just stared at it, hearing Barclay in her head. Take it now. Go and find Mr. V. Deliver it and get out. Get home.

And Willa. One thousand pounds, Rosie. One. Thousand. Pounds.

She closed the drawer. With the greatest risks came the greatest rewards—but this wasn’t about risk. This was about causing someone injury. And she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t. It was probably his only copy of it, and if it vanished . . . he didn’t have time enough to write it again. Not before his deadline.

Mr. V would just have to take her word for it. She raised her pick again, worked it in the lock until she heard another click.

Her assurance would just have to be good enough. And if it weren’t . . .

She wondered if prisons had electric lights.