A Shared Secret

The scent of old paper and lemon polish hung in the air, a comforting aroma that usually settled my soul like a well-loved quilt. But lately, the library felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. I kept catching myself staring out the tall, arched windows, my gaze drifting to the bustling street below, a world away from the hushed reverence of the stacks. My mind, you see, was a frequent flyer to the 17th century, a realm populated by dashing princes and whispered courtly intrigues, all thanks to a certain antique locket and the rather persistent, albeit charmingly clumsy, Prince Valerius.

Liam, bless his historian’s heart, had noticed. He’d been hovering around the historical fiction section with an almost imperceptible tilt to his head, his eyes, the colour of warm oak, crinkling at the corners whenever I’d let out a soft sigh or trace the spine of a particularly romantic tome. Today, he’d found me, as usual, lost in the dusty prose of a bygone era.

"Lost in the French Revolution again, Elara?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that always managed to dislodge me from my reveries. He was leaning against a towering bookshelf, a stack of brittle maps tucked under one arm.