I walked toward her. I wrapped my arms around her back, sliding my fingers through hers. She sighed into my chest. “Like this.” I reached our hands forward, gliding over a crumbling hardback.
She gasped slightly when she saw the cover, then giggled. “You would pick Cantar de mio Cid. Such a classic rebel.”
“Not breaking any literary laws I take it?”
“Not with this one. I can’t believe this is real.” She leaned into me as she scanned the shelves upward toward the ceiling. It formed a stained-glass dome.
I couldn’t remember the last time I looked up in this room. I couldn’t remember when I gave a shit about ancient texts or what was in here. How many copies of Shakespeare were there? Did we have Keats and Kipling? How extensive were our American authors?
I straightened her shoulders so that she was standing upright.
“I have lunch with the prime minister.” I don’t know why I felt like I needed to explain my absence. I didn’t share my schedule with anyone. I never had.
“Oh.”
“But stay.” I turned for the door. “And touch the books, Molly.”
She grinned slyly. It was the first glimpse of the girl in my bed this morning. “Maybe. If you think it would be ok.”
“I expect it.”
I closed the door behind me.
Twelve
Molly
I got lost in the books. Hours passed. It could have been days. I didn’t stop to find anything to eat or drink. I was mesmerized by Damon’s family collection. I had questions. Who put it together? Were there records on where each book was acquired? How did they catalog it? Was there a palace librarian?
I thumbed through a tattered copy of Le Petit Prince. I guessed it was worth more than my apartment. My neck and shoulders were sore. I had my own research to complete. And I hadn’t checked in on Brooklyn.
There was no way to know when Damon would finish with the prime minister. I had no idea which prime minister was here. It was surreal to think I was in the same building as world leaders. I returned the book to the shelf and ventured out of the library. The halls were quiet. I remembered which direction we had walked this morning.
The elevator was at the end of this corridor.
I arrived, smiling at the guards.
“Hi.”
The one on the right broke his staring contest with the wall and cut a glance at me.
“I’d like to go upstairs.” I knew my voice wasn’t confident. I didn’t know the protocol or what to say. If he would scoot, I could hop on the elevator.
“His Royal Highness has not given instructions, mademoiselle.”
“Well, I—I’m visiting.” I tried to think of how to put our arrangement in suitable terms. I had already been warned once about my word choice. “His Royal Highness asked me to stay.” It sounded funny referring to him that way. I knew he was the king, but I don’t think the weight of his position had hit me yet. After last night I felt things were as personal as they could be between us.
The men didn’t budge. “There are no instructions,” he repeated.
I crossed my arms. What in the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t wander aimlessly around the palace. They weren’t going to let me upstairs. I was starving. And I needed to get home to check on my best friend.
I was going to make one more attempt to plead for their compassion when an older gentleman appeared fro
m a side room. He was thin with a silvery mustache.
“What is this? Are you lost, madam?”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “I’m visiting the king and wanted to return to the royal residence,” I explained.