The rain continued its gentle percussion against the windows of The Inkwell, sealing them in a bubble of soft light and whispered history. The tension from Cassian's arrival had shifted, morphing into a charged, professional standoff.
"Terms?" Cassian repeated, a hint of his earlier wariness returning. He remained standing just inside the doorway, a puddle slowly forming at his feet.
"Terms," Elara affirmed, slipping back into the persona she used with difficult clients. She gestured to the two wingback chairs by the cold fireplace. "Perhaps you should take off your wet coat. This might take a minute."
He hesitated, then shrugged out of his soaked jacket, hanging it carefully on the peg next to Bea's yellow raincoat. The gesture, small and domestic, felt strangely significant. Underneath, he wore a simple grey henley that emphasized the lean strength of his frame. He sat, perching on the edge of the chair as if ready to bolt, while Elara took the other, folding her hands in her lap.
"I have the asset—the letters, the box, the research my grandmother did," she began, her voice calm and measured. "You have the historical context and, I assume, the research skills to make sense of it. My grandmother believed this story should be finished. I'm inclined to honor that wish."
Cassian nodded once, his eyes guarded. "Agreed."
"But I have a life in Boston that requires my return. This," she said, gesturing around the shop, "is a project with a deadline. So, here are my terms. One: We work together here, in the shop, on a schedule. I propose weekday afternoons, from one to four." She needed her mornings for the actual business of liquidating the estate and her evenings for… well, for not thinking about brooding novelists.
A flicker of amusement crossed his features. "You're scheduling historical discovery?"
"I schedule everything, Mr. Thorne. It's how things get done. Two: You get access to the materials, but they do not leave this shop. They are part of the estate." She couldn't risk a rare artifact going missing.
"Fine."
"Three: This is a collaboration. I'm not just handing you a treasure trove for your book. I'm involved. I want to understand the process. I want to help find the ending."
This gave him pause. He studied her, his head tilted. "You're an architect."
"And architecture is just history you can live in. I'm adept at research, detail orientation, and piecing fragments into a coherent whole. I think my skills might be transferable."
He seemed to weigh this, and after a moment, gave a curt nod. "Acceptable. My terms are simpler. One: I need quiet to work. Actual quiet." His gaze flickered meaningfully toward Fitzgerald, who was now batting a dust bunny across the floor.
"I'll see if I can negotiate a truce with the literary critic," Elara said dryly. "And two?"
"Two: When—if—we uncover something significant, the story is mine to tell. In my book."
Elara considered this. It seemed fair. Her goal wasn't publication; it was fulfillment of a promise. "Agreed. But my grandmother's role, and the discovery of the letters, will be acknowledged."
"Naturally." He extended his hand. "Do we have a deal, Miss Vance?"
She took it. His hand was warm and strong, calloused in a way that spoke of gardening and writing longhand, not typing on a keyboard. The contact was brief, electric, and utterly businesslike.
"We have a deal, Mr. Thorne. Our first session begins tomorrow at one p.m. sharp."
He stood, retrieving his still-damp jacket. "I'll be here." He paused at the door, looking back at the writing box on the desk. "You should read the first letter. It's… it's a good place to start." And then he was gone, swallowed by the grey afternoon.
The next day, at 12:58 p.m., Elara had transformed the small reading table by the window into a research station. She had a new notebook, a set of color-coded tabs, her laptop, and a pot of freshly brewed Earl Grey. The writing box and the bundle of letters sat in the center of the table like a holy relic.
At 1:00 p.m. exactly, the door opened. Cassian arrived, looking less like a drowned rat and more like a man who had made an effort. His hair was tame, and he wore a clean, dark sweater. He carried a simple leather satchel.
He took in her elaborate setup with a raised eyebrow but said nothing, taking the seat opposite her. He pulled out a simple legal pad and a single, expensive-looking fountain pen.
"Right," Elara said, opening her laptop. "Shall we begin? I thought we could start by creating a timeline of known events and…"
But Cassian wasn't listening. He was staring at the bundle of letters, his expression one of such profound reverence that Elara fell silent. He reached out, his fingers hovering just above the faded ribbon.
"May I?" he asked, his voice hushed.
"Of course. That's why we're here."
He untied the ribbon with infinite care. The paper was brittle, the ink faded to brown. He selected the first letter, its creases deep and worn. He didn't scan it. He read it slowly, absorbing every word, his lips moving slightly.
After a few minutes, he let out a soft breath. He looked up, and the intensity in his grey eyes was breathtaking. "It's her. Eleanor. This is the first letter. July 12, 1922." He turned it around so Elara could see the elegant, masculine script. "He saw her at the summer festival. He asked her to dance."
Elara leaned forward, captivated despite herself. "What does it say?"
Cassian didn't read it from the page; he seemed to know it. His voice, usually so rough, softened, taking on a lyrical quality.
"My Dearest Eleanor," he began, and the shop faded away. "I told myself I would not write this. That it is a madness to put these thoughts to paper. But I have just left you, and my hand trembles with the memory of yours. The music has stopped, the lanterns are dimmed, but in my mind, we are still turning, and the world is nothing but the light in your eyes and the impossible grace of you…"
He read on, the words painting a picture of a love so immediate and powerful it felt like a physical presence in the room. Elara forgot about her color-coded tabs and her timeline. She was utterly transported.
When he finished, the last word hanging in the air, there was a long silence. Fitzgerald had even stopped his batting and was curled asleep in a patch of sun.
Cassian looked at Elara, and for the first time, there was no barrier between them. They were just two people, humbled by a beautiful, century-old secret.
"Wow," Elara whispered, her professional facade completely gone.
A genuine, unguarded smile touched Cassian's lips. It transformed his entire face, making him look younger, lighter. "Yes," he agreed softly. "Wow."
Elara recovered first, clearing her throat. "Right. So. July 12, 1922. First meeting." She typed the date into her laptop, her fingers feeling clumsy. "That's our starting point."
Cassian watched her, the ghost of his smile still playing on his face. "Your grandmother was right, you know."
"About what?"
"You're very good at piecing fragments into a coherent whole." He picked up his fountain pen. "Now. Let's see what happens next."
And for the next two hours, they worked. Not as a scheduled appointment, but as partners. He deciphered the flowing script and provided historical context; she cross-referenced dates with town records she found online and built a meticulous timeline. They argued over handwriting, debated motivations, and fell into a easy, focused rhythm.
At five minutes to four, Elara's phone buzzed loudly on the table, shattering the quiet concentration. It was Mark.
The spell was broken.
Cassian's open expression shuttered closed. He leaned back in his chair, the connection severed as abruptly as it had formed.
Elara silenced the phone. "I should…"
"Of course," he said, standing and gathering his things. "The schedule." The word was not spoken kindly. "Tomorrow at one?"
"Yes," Elara said, a strange pang of loss hitting her as he retreated to the door.
"Until then, Miss Vance." He gave a curt nod and was gone.
Elara sat alone at the table, the echo of Alistair's words and Cassian's voice mixing with the lingering ring of her phone. She looked from the beautiful, tragic love story on the table to the modern demand blinking on her screen.
For the first time, the straight line back to Boston looked long, lonely, and incredibly dull.