"It depends on how often the horse is ridden. If it's ridden every day, Thompson says in less than a week. Ridden less, and it'll be longer, but he doesn't expect that shoe to stay on much above a fortnight."
She considered, then asked, "And it's been the same horse every time?"
"I believe so." Lucifer frowned. "Just to be sure, I'll send Dodswell to look at the latest prints. The others would all have washed away by now."
"I really don't believe we have more than one phantom horseman in the village," Phyllida returned. "He always hides his horse, too, doesn't he?"
"He makes sure it isn't somewhere where a chance passerby would see it. That suggests the horse, too, would identify him, which makes our prospects of catching him at last look good." Lucifer met Phyllida's gaze. "It's ironic. He tried to kill you and succeeded in destroying the one piece of hard evidence we had. But in doing so, he's given us another piece of even better evidence. We might never have traced the hat. It's unlikely we won't trace the horse."
Phyllida blinked. "I didn't think of that."
Lucifer rose and circled the desk. "I think we need to think of that." Halting before Phyllida, he hunkered down so his face was level with hers. "This murderer, whoever he is, has shown himself capable of the most ruthless acts. Murdering Horatio. Trying to kill you." Reaching out, he smoothed her hair, then cupped her face lightly. "We can't take any chances for the next few weeks."
Phyllida looked into his eyes, then smiled. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "You're right."
Lucifer blinked. His hand remained about her face, stopping her from retreating. He held her gaze. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
Phyllida's smile softened. "Is that a promise?"
Lucifer studied her eyes, then drew her nearer. "A sworn oath."
Five minutes later, distinctly breathless, she drew back, tried to frown at him, and lifted the book that had fallen, forgotten, in her lap. "We haven't finished these yet." She held the book like a shield between them.
Lucifer glanced at the pile of tomes with inscriptions that Covey had left stacked between the desk and the chair.
"We might have nearly identified Horatio's murderer, but we've yet to find any explanation for why he's so interested in Horatio's books." Phyllida picked up the top volume and slapped it against Lucifer's chest.
He grimaced and took it. "As you say." He rose.
Phyllida looked up at him. "Have you any idea what that item was that Horatio wanted you to look at?"
Lucifer shook his head. "That, too, remains a mystery. It's possible we'll never know what it was Horatio had found."
"Don't give up hope." Phyllida handed him two more books. "Not when there's so many places still left to search for clues."
Smiling, Lucifer returned to the desk. "Speaking of searching, you still haven't discovered that writing desk and the oh-so-important letters."
"I know." Smiling, Phyllida shook her head. "When Mary Anne visited this afternoon, she never mentioned the letters, even when Mrs. Farthingale left us alone. All she could talk about was the fire, and me staying here with you."
"Perspective," Lucifer said, sitting down and opening a book. "It comes to us all."
Phyllida humphed, then settled to deciphering notations.
An hour later, they called a halt. The house was already secured for the night; Dodswell had stuck his head into the library and reported that fact. All they had to do was to turn out the lamps, collect their candles from the table in the hall, and climb the stairs.
They turned along the corridor. All about them was quiet and still. Sweetie had the other back corner room at the end of the other corridor. When they reached the point where they would part, each to their separate rooms, Phyllida halted. She glanced at Lucifer. "You're the experienced one. Your room or mine?"
Lucifer looked into her dark eyes, lit by the candle flame. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that in this particular arena, the one they were playing in, he was no more experienced than she.
Except, perhaps, that wasn't quite true.
He was a Cynster. He had generations of love matches behind him. These days, love matches abounded all around him. It was something in the blood, something not even he could resist. He'd grown up knowing of no other sort of marriage. It was the only sort that would do for him.
He bent his head and kissed her lightly. "Are you sure?" He breathed the question over her lips, then eased back.
Her hand had fisted on his lapel; she held him near, her eyes locked on his. Then her gaze dropped to his lips. Hers, he noted, curved gently. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm sure."
"Your room, then, for now. We'll have the rest of our lives to enjoy mine."