The locked doorknob wouldn’t give way—not even with an incantation.
Isadora stood at the far end of the third floor, near long windows that sent banners of sunlight into the hallway. The edges of her skirt dusted a forgotten floor. Aside from her own footsteps, it was a floor that clearly hadn’t been trod in quite awhile.
At the end of the hallway stood a curious door. Carved with swirling designs, like ocean tides, or stars, or curling clouds wrapped around pegs. The intricate work must have taken ages. She imagined tiny chisels, impressive patience, and great love. The stain alternated from dark to light, expertly shadowed.
She ran her fingers over the closest design, then crouched down. A keyhole peered into a room with soft tones, revealing muted sunlight, a wall, and one side of a window. She straightened.
“Well, what do you hide?”
A stroke of inspiration pushed her to reach above the door. A ledge around the doorframe would make the perfect place for a—
Oh.
A metal something clattered off the top, landed on top of her head, then thunked to the floor. Grimacing, she rubbed the sore spot and bent over to pick it up.
Indeed, a key.
Immeasurably pleased with herself, she inserted it into the knob and turned. The intricate filigree finally moved. With a deep groan and a slow creak, the door swung inside.
Isadora held her breath.
The wispy layout of a nursery appeared. Dust lay thick on the wooden floor, left bare. Two cribs, side by side, stood in the middle of the room. Ruffled fabric around each bed hid firm mattresses. Small, sewn animals lay on the sheets, below dangling banners that stretched over the tops.
A sacred ambience permeated the air as she ventured in. To the left, folded diapers, clothes, wooden toys, and extra blankets filled the shelves. The supplies waited in stoic silence, abandoned who-knew-how-many years ago. She touched each tiny shirt, the rattles, and imagined the quiet cooing sounds of the children. So many gowns, in different colors and sizes, guessed at more than one baby.
Twins?
As she ventured farther, Isadora attempted to remember details about Charlie. Did he have siblings? She didn’t think so. Aunts, uncles? He and Max both clung to each other and Wildrose for sheer lack of blood family.
Trails appeared in the dust as she ran her fingers along the edge of the crib top. She hummed, a lullaby Mam used to sing. The sound echoed in the cavernously bare room. Drapes pulled partially over windows bled dim light. She turned, skirt whirling, when a line in the wall caught her attention. The wallpaper split in a strange . . . no. That wasn’t a split.
That was a seam.
Intrigued, she ventured closer. Though almost perfectly concealed, a slight discoloration of the wallpaper gave a segment away. When this room was first wallpapered, one might not have noticed it.
The devastating, aging effects of time, however . . .
Isa peered into the hidden seam. Darkness. As she pressed her fingertips to the wall, a groan issued. The sound repeated with more pressure. She pressed twice. The wall trembled in and back out.
A hidden cubby?
Her fingertips traced the seam, testing for weakness. Several colorful panes to the right, the portion of the wall shifted ever-so-slightly. Two panels wide, then. About the length of fingertip to elbow.
For minutes, Isadora attempted to open it. She tapped at the bottom, pressured the sides. Bracing a rattle in the seam to pry it open failed spectacularly. Like Wildrose, the nursery wasn’t ready to yield its secrets.
Finally, she issued a spell. Another. A third. Nothing happened. In exasperation, she attempted a final, obscure incantation used to retrieve lost things. Failed. Vexed, she splayed her hand against the paper.
“What do you hide? Might I see it?”
Heat gathered under her palm, illuminating with a whirl. The wall shifted. It moaned apart at the seam. With a gasp, she grabbed the edge, catching it before it slammed closed. The tips of her fingers ached as she slowly eased it open on rusty, interior-facing hinges. It swung toward her, then moved without restraint.
Isadora paused in quiet astonishment.
A bundle of letters lay on a small shelf. Aside from dust, nothing else was there. Twine bound the letters together. She picked them up, studied them. The smell of aged parchment and old ink drifted from inside.
Carefully, she closed the hidden compartment.
A rocking chair squeaked as she lowered into it, letters in her lap, and plucked at the twine. The parchments shuffled apart when the string loosened in her hands. She pulled the top one free.
A letter.
If age and time were any indication—not to mention difficult-to-read handwriting—these letters were from over a hundred years ago.
Darling,
I burn for you. Wish I could see you. How are your babies? Is there any news? Until you return to my side, I will be only half of a man. Never whole without you.
When can you come to me? Will he know?
Yours
Her eyes widened.
“Intrigue!” she murmured. “Who is this man?”
A sound in the hallway drew her gaze higher. Her name rippled from near the stairs.
“Isadora?”
“Here!” she called, quickly closing the letter. “I’m in here, Max.”
Hastily, but gently, she stacked the letters together, tied the twine, and looked up just as he appeared in the doorway.
Her heart hiccuped.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, gazing on her with inquiry. He’d undone his top button, removed his jacket, and unbuttoned his vest. As casual as she’d ever seen him, outside his pajamas. Did he realize how handsome he was? Her lips tingled, burning for a kiss.
His gaze darted around the room, then back to her. A blush bloomed across her cheeks. What did he think of his wife lurking in a nursery? Heavens, but she hoped he didn’t draw unnecessary conclusions.
Amusement lined his tone.
“What have you found?”
She stood, spelling the letters to an empty drawer in her armoire for later. “Ah, I was exploring. This locked door has had my curiosity for some time, so I decided to find my way inside. I discovered the key and . . .well . . . here we are!”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it? Do you know anything about this nursery?”
“Not a thing. This room has always been locked.”
She smirked. “Well, when one knows how to find a key . . .”
“The key?” He frowned. “There is no key to this door.”
She gestured to the doorknob.
He studied the wrought-iron key poking out. “Ranulf told me that someone had enchanted it to remain closed. One of the former occupants, I believe. A great-great aunt, or something. I can’t remember. Apparently, the spell was of distant and unknown origin. According to Ranulf, the magic hid the key. Said key would only appear to certain people and under very specific circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
He shrugged. “It was never known. We assumed an incantation.”
“Well . . . how strange. It lay on top of the door.”
“Impossible. Charlie looked there a dozen times.”
“What do you want me to say? I reached up, the key was there, I came inside.” The flash of heat against her palm when she pressed it to the wall and found the letters renewed. Magic, definitely, but not of her own making.
Max eyed her warily. “What have you done?”
“Nothing, Max. I swear it. I attempted a few simple opening spells, but of course they didn’t do anything. Then I asked to see inside, felt above the door frame, and it lay on top.”
“Really?”
“As you see.”
He appeared both puzzled and troubled.
“Your manor certainly keeps a woman on her toes.”
Shaking that off, he straightened. “I suppose I’m glad to hear it. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“Allow me to fix you something to eat?”
He held out a hand. Startled by the gesture, she accepted. Their warm fingers slid together as if they’d never been apart. The ease in which he increasingly touched her was a delightful sign of things to come.
She hoped.
“Thank you. I would like that very much.”
* * *
Steam luffed off the top of a boiling cauldron, filling the room with a sticky heat. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of Max’s knife on the cutting board filled the room. Isadora stood at the fire, a long-handled wooden spoon in hand as she stirred a simmering concoction of spices in a cast-iron pan.
“You know,” she drawled with a teasing tone, “you are one of the highest-ranking members of the Central Network political hierarchy.”
“I am aware.”
“You could always pay someone else to fix your meals and spare yourself the trouble.”
“I could. Yet, I do not.”
“Why is that?”
He hesitated, mouth half open. He gathered another bunch of wild green onions, likely gathered from the greenhouse she spotted across the way, and rubbed a few clods of dirt off the white bulbs.
“I don’t mind cooking.”
“Aren’t you tired at the end of the day?”
“Yes, and often hungry.”
“Are you short on currency?”
He snorted. “Hardly.”
“Do you like doing it?”
The green tops of the onions disappeared from their stalks and into thin ribbons under the flash of his knife.
“I like doing something other than meetings, messages, or political discussion. If I’m going to eat food, it would be a waste not to enjoy it. Preparation is part of the process, and I like to see it transform from start to finish.”
She paused, thinking that over. In fact, she’d never thought much about it either way. Food had always just been food.
“Wildrose was often quiet,” he continued, “even with the Advocacy in full swing downstairs. At the end of the day, I sometimes hated that there wasn’t more waiting for me than just . . . the study. The paperwork. More of the same.”
“So you began cooking?”
“Yes.”
She studied the color of the spices in the pan, waiting for them to turn the gentle golden color he described. She set the wooden spoon on the side, then reached for the fire poker when the oil bubbled too violently. Scattering the logs gradually reduced the boil to a simmer.
This unfettered view into the real Max was most welcome. She leaned into the chance, worried it might flitter away.
“I’m surprised you had time to cook, between your requirements at the castle, the Advocacy and . . . everything else in your life.”
With a start, she realized she didn’t know what else there was.
“I don’t always,” he admitted. “I’m . . . attempting to enjoy it while I have the time. And someone to enjoy it with. Which may not always be available.”
She blinked, arrested. Well, look at that.
Max could be downright pleasant.
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?” She slipped the spoon around the bottom of the pan in looping swirls. Two more minutes, then she’d add the greens.
“Anything.”
“Do you bake?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cake?”
He glanced at her, a hint of a smile on his face. “You like cake?”
Isadora grinned. “It depends. We rarely had sugar at home, so I’ve only tried cake from my time at Miss Sophia’s. I did like it. The flecks of carrots made it sweet and—”
“Wait.” He set both hands down. “You’ve only ever had carrot cake?”
“Yes.”
“Chocolate?”
She shook her head.
“Butter yellow with lemon creme?”
Eyes wide, she shook her head again. “No, but that sounds delicious!”
Max returned to his chopping, muttering under his breath about child abuse and heathen parenting. Laughing, she turned back to the pan, tossing several handfuls of greens into the mix. They began to wilt.
“How is it?” he asked.
“Almost done to your specifications, sir.”
“Bring it over when you’re done.”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
He muttered in annoyance again.
Minutes later, she stood across from him, hands protected with a thick mitt. She dumped the green, spice-filled concoction on top of the bread and goat cheese he’d pieced together, then warmed on top of the fire. The hot greens and spices began to melt the cheese. He dribbled the green onions on top and nodded once, satisfied.
Suddenly uneasy, he glanced at her. “Ah . . . I don’t know what it’s called. I sort of . . . made this up.”
“Looks delicious.”
“It is.”
She smiled. “I’m excited to try it.”
Her eagerness seemed to soothe whatever concern popped up. He relaxed, slipped a toasty piece of bread onto a plate, then shoved it in her direction. She grabbed a knife, cut off a square, while he did the same.
Her first gooey bite of soft bread, melted goat cheese, and the perfectly-spiced greens-and-other-sundries topping melted in her mouth. The crackling top tasted like heaven. She closed her eyes.
“Delicious.”
When they opened again, Max stared at her in unabashed admiration. “You’re perfection. You know that, don’t you?”
Stunned, she could only stare. He returned to his meal, had a bite. After chewing, he nodded. “You did it perfectly. Well executed, Isa.”
She had another bite just to occupy her mouth, ridding herself of the obligation to speak. What could she possibly say when he looked at her like that?
Nothing.
Isadora finished half of her green-topped bread before she found her voice again.
“The nursery that I found, that . . . admitted me inside . . . it made me wonder what you think about having children.”
If the question surprised him, he gave no sign. Max reached for a cloth napkin as he said, “I haven’t thought much about it.”
“Not at all?”
He snapped the napkin, shaking it out before wiping his fingers on it. “No.”
“Oh.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I hazard a guess that you have?”
“I suppose. Not very seriously. Mam wanted me to handfast Jesse and I know he would have wanted loads of children. He’s the second oldest of six. So I have thought about it, but not seriously. One of the Parker girls had her children's names all picked out and plans for how often to have them . . . I never did that.”
A definite chill entered his voice. “And who is Jesse?”
“Another Dragonmaster.”
“Are you close?”
“No.”
He made a noise in his throat.
“Anyway, I thought maybe we should establish expectations around children. You know, if we’re going to keep doing this,” she added.
To his credit, he displayed no annoyance. “Not a bad idea. Regarding children? If we had one or two, I think I should be fine with that. If we didn’t, I would also be fine with that.”
“Then we’ll just . . . see what happens?”
He shrugged. “The most arduous part of the process is yours, Isa. I leave the decision to you, as you’ll endure the most rigor. Whatever you decide, I will be here to support you.”
The unwinding pressure that sat on her chest began to dissipate. Isadora managed a smile, startled by how deeply his response affected her. In the world she grew up in, such expectations were universal. She would have children, because it’s what they did.
To have the choice . . .
She set those thoughts aside to consider later, when she had time to chew on them. Food finished, he washed his plate and set it aside on a towel to dry. Isadora nudged the remaining part of her bread toward him, but he waved it off.
“If you don’t want it, Ean can have it.” Max motioned toward the third bread. “I made that for him, but he’ll eat yours as well. The lad would eat Wildrose if I let him, he’s so hungry these days,” he finished in a mutter.
“I have yet to meet Ean.”
“Oh, he’ll appear soon enough.” He paused, regarded her. “I’m tired and believe I’ll retire to bed. You?”
“Yes, that sounds good.”
“I found a book that I thought you might be interested in.” He held out an empty hand. The next moment, a small tome appeared there. Slightly tattered and well loved, but holding together. “It’s filled with silly riddles that you fill in yourself. I don’t know why I thought of you, but I did.”
A grin crossed her face. “Really? I would love to do them! Will you do them with me?”
“Of course.”
His quick, sincere capitulation made her heart flutter. She accepted the book, clasping it to her, and slipped her arm through his.
“Thank you, Max.”
He tugged her toward the stairs. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m horrendous with fun.”