Chapter 4
Yet he wasn't lounging.
He stood with both feet planted wide, his right shoulder braced firmly against the fluted cedar pillar of the banister. His hand wasn't resting on the wood; his long fingers were curled over the carved edge, gripping it with the casual, heavy pressure of a sailor riding out a swell.
“You're early,” I said, my voice echoing off the marble floor.
Vance’s chin lifted. His dark eyes didn't track my face at first; they flicked toward the ceiling, tracing the path of the echo, before snapping down to fixate directly on my mouth.
“Time is capital,” he said smoothly, pushing off the pillar. The movement was sharp, sudden, and when his boot met the floor, the sole struck the stone with an exaggerated, resounding *crack*. “And I’d prefer not to spend more of either in this God-forsaken salt pit than necessary. Follow me.”
He turned and started up the grand staircase.
I fell into step behind him, carrying my case. “I expected a caretaker. Or at least a clerk from your firm.”
“Clerks talk,” Vance called back, his pace aggressive, taking the risers two at a time. “Clerks have cousins at rival auction houses. The provenance of the Blackwood cartography stays between my ledger and your hands until the catalog goes to print.”
The staircase curved sharply to the left, ascending into the shadows of the upper gallery where the tall arched windows were boarded over with rough pine planks. As the gray morning light fell away into gloom, Vance's stride didn't slow. If anything, it became more erratic.
His left hand shot out, not toward the handrail on the outside of the curve, but toward the damp, plastered wall on the inside. His fingertips scraped across the peeling paper—a dry, scuffling sound—before his balance sheared. He pitched backward half a step, and his hand lashed out, seizing the heavy tweed sleeve of my upper arm in an iron grip.
The sudden wrench pulled me hard against the riser. My field box banged sharply against my shin, and his fingers dug straight through the wool into my bicep, bone-crushing and desperate.
“Watch your footing,” he barked, his voice tight, rough, and dropped directly into my ear.
Pain flared hot through my arm. I didn't let him use me as a banister.
“Let go of me, Vance,” I commanded, my voice cold and hard as flint. “Now.”
He didn't argue. At the sharp edge in my tone, his fingers unclasped instantly.
The moment his grip broke, however, Vance swayed violently to the left. He had to throw his palm hard against the damp wall to arrest his momentum, his boots sliding against the dusty stone of the landing before he caught himself. He stood there, his back half-turned to me, breathing through his teeth in a fast, shallow hiss, his forearm braced against the plaster.
I rubbed my bicep where his fingers had left a dull, throbbing ache. It was the second time in twenty-four hours he had clamped onto me like a lifeline and tried to pass it off as an imperious command.
“You don't pull on me to steady yourself,” I said, stepping up to the landing and leveling an unyielding look at him. “If your footing is that uncertain, use the cedar railing. My coat isn't your personal handrail, and you nearly sent fifteen pounds of steel tools down three flights of marble.”
Vance’s jaw worked, the muscle ticking beside his ear. When he turned around, the razor-thin smirk was back in place, though his pupils were blown wide in the dimness, swallowing the brown irises almost completely.
“Don't flatter yourself,” he muttered, his tone acidic. “You were lagging. I was making sure my conservator didn't break his neck before the condition reports were drafted.”
“I walk fine,” I replied. “Keep your hands off my sleeves.”
He held my gaze for a second, his chest rising and falling beneath his waistcoat, before he wheeled away with that same rigid pivot. He didn't walk in the center of the hall. He kept three inches from the wall, his coat brushing the moldings, his boots falling with heavy, rhythmic slaps against the floorboards.
*Tap. Clack. Tap. Clack.*
The sound reverberated through the hollow house like a metronome.
“Is the stomping necessary?” I asked, keeping a deliberate two paces behind him. “Or did the capital teach you that rattling the joists makes you look commanding?”
He didn't answer until we reached the end of the long hall, where a set of heavy double doors stood slightly ajar. A line of warm, golden light spilled across the threshold, smelling of burning applewood and dry paper.
Vance caught the brass handle, throwing the doors wide. “Welcome to the treasury, Jules.”
The breath caught in my throat.
Whatever reprimand remained on my tongue withered away. The Blackwood solar was vast, circular, occupying the entire upper floor of the manor’s eastern tower. Five immense braziers were stoked with red-hot coals, filling the air with a dry, fierce warmth that entirely banished the coastal chill. Heavy velvet draperies had been drawn across the seaward casements to block the damaging salt air, but the landward windows were uncovered, flooding the room with cold, clear northern light—the perfect illumination for conservation.
And in the center of the room, laid out across three massive oak refectory tables, lay the collection.
Dozens of vellum sheets, calfskin rolls, and bound folios rested upon clean linen sheets. The ink was magnificent—iron gall that had aged to a rich, velvety sepia, illuminated with striking borders of cinnabar red, copper resinate green, and lapis lazuli so pure it seemed to glow from within the sheepskin.
I set my tool box on the floor, my fingers itching with reverence. “The 1342 coastal survey...”
“Table two,” Vance said.
He didn't walk over to the table to admire it. He moved toward the fireplace, stopping directly in front of the stone hearth where the flames cast flickering, erratic shadows across the rug. He stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands behind him, watching me with that unblinking, heavy gaze.
“You have three weeks,” he said, the metropolitan cadence ringing clear and hard in the circular chamber. “Every sheet must be flattened, cleaned of surface mold, and stabilized. The loose signatures need restitching in unbleached linen thread. I want a complete condition report for every item by Friday.”
I walked to the second table, ignoring his pompous tone, my eyes drinking in the vellum. It was a maritime chart of the western approaches, drawn before the Black Death swept the coast. The coastlines were traced with trembling, obsessive accuracy, dotted with miniature wind roses and mythical sea beasts in gold leaf.
“The sizing is lifting in the lower quadrant,” I murmured, leaning down, careful not to let my breath moisten the surface. “Someone stored this near a leaky flue. The collagen is brittle. If I don't consolidate the pigment with sturgeon glue before we touch the folds, the gold will flake.”
I waited for his sarcastic rejoinder. When none came, I reached into my pocket for my magnifying loupe. The room had gone dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth.
