The rain had stopped, leaving Seabrook glistening under a pale, watery sun. But inside The Inkwell, the atmosphere was cooler than it had been an hour before. Elara stared at the silent phone, Mark's name glaring from the screen. The echo of Cassian's retreat—"The schedule."—felt like a door slamming shut.
She'd been so absorbed in the rhythm of it, the delicate dance of piecing together the past. Him, with his intuitive leaps and profound respect for the documents. Her, with her structured note-taking and logical cross-referencing. For a few hours, it hadn't been a negotiation or a truce. It had felt like… partnership.
And she'd broken the unspoken rule. She'd let the outside world in.
With a sigh, she returned Mark's call, her voice carefully neutral as she assured him progress was being made, that she was dealing with a few unexpected complexities with the estate. He talked about zoning permits for the Henderson project, his words a jarring, metallic buzz in the quiet, story-soaked air of the bookshop. When she hung up, the silence felt accusing.
She looked at the timeline on her screen. July 12, 1922 - First Dance. August 3, 1922 - A walk along the cliffs. September 15, 1922 - A secret meeting in the lighthouse… It was a skeleton. It needed flesh and blood. It needed the context Cassian provided without even trying.
The next day, at 12:58 p.m., the research station was ready. The tea was steeping. Elara's notebook was open. But her stomach was a tight knot of apprehension.
At 1:03 p.m., he still wasn't there.
A ridiculous panic fluttered in her chest. Had she ruined it? Had he decided the intrusion wasn't worth it?
At 1:07 p.m., the door opened. Cassian stepped in, but the man from yesterday was gone. This was the version from day one: closed-off, shoulders tense, a faint frown line between his brows. He didn't meet her eyes.
"Good afternoon," Elara said, her voice sounding too bright in the tense space.
He gave a grunt that might have been a greeting and took his seat. He pulled out his legal pad and pen, his movements efficient and devoid of yesterday's reverence.
"I was thinking," Elara began, determined to be professional, "we could focus on cross-referencing the dates in the letters with the old town newspapers. I found a digital archive for the Seabrook Chronicle that—"
"The archives are incomplete for that decade," he interrupted, his tone flat. "The best copies are on microfiche at the town library."
"Oh. Well, that's a good lead. We could…"
"I'll go this week," he said, cutting her off again. He finally looked at her, his gaze cool and impersonal. "I'll make copies of anything relevant."
The 'I' hung in the air, pointed and exclusionary. I'll go. I'll make copies. Not we.
He'd retreated behind his walls, and they were higher than ever. Elara felt a spark of frustration. They had a deal. She wasn't just his research assistant.
"I'd like to come," she said, keeping her tone even.
His eyebrow arched. "It's a cramped room in a basement. It smells of dust and decaying paper. It's not…" He gestured vaguely at her crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. "…efficient."
The dismissal was clear. She was too city, too polished, too disruptive for the real work.
"I'm an architect, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice gaining a sharp edge. "I've spent plenty of time in cramped, dusty rooms reviewing century-old blueprints. I think I can handle microfiche."
A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps—crossed his face. He clearly hadn't expected her to push back. He studied her for a long moment, as if seeing her for the first time. The efficient city girl who wasn't afraid of a little dust.
"Suit yourself," he said finally, the words a reluctant concession. He turned his attention to the letters, effectively ending the conversation.
The session that followed was a masterclass in strained civility. He read passages aloud when necessary, his voice devoid of the previous day's emotion. She took notes, her questions met with monosyllabic answers. The magic was gone, replaced by the cold mechanics of research.
During a particularly long silence, broken only by the scratch of his pen, Elara's gaze drifted past him to the garden window. She saw a woman with a kind, round face and a basket over her arm carefully navigating the flagstone path toward Cassian's cottage. She knocked on his door, waited a moment, and when there was no answer, she left the basket on his porch with a cheerful wave in the general direction of the shop.
"Who's that?" Elara asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Cassian didn't look up. "Marianne. She runs the bakery. She leaves a basket every Tuesday."
"That's kind of her."
"It's a pity basket," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Ever since the… well. Ever since. The town has decided I'm a helpless recluse in need of baked goods and casseroles."
Elara heard the bitter shame underneath the flat tone. This wasn't just about being private. It was about a very public failure she knew nothing about. Grams's letter floated back to her: '…hiding from the publishing world's expectations and the scandal that halted his career.'
"What happened?" The question was out before she could stop it.
His head snapped up, his eyes flashing a warning. "That is not part of our research, Miss Vance."
"It might be," she countered, holding his gaze. "My grandmother believed you were connected to this story. I'd like to understand why. Is your… situation… related to why you're so obsessed with Alistair Reed?"
The word 'obsessed' hung in the air, charged and dangerous.
Cassian's jaw tightened. He looked like he was about to stand up and walk out. Then, a strange weariness settled over him. He set down his pen.
"I told a story that wasn't mine to tell," he said, the words quiet and laced with a self-loathing that was palpable. "I took a family's history, a painful one, and I… fictionalized it. I got it wrong. And I hurt people. The critics were the least of it." He finally met her eyes, and the raw pain in his was a shocking contrast to his usual scowl. "Alistair's story… it's a mystery. A truth that needs to be found, not invented. I suppose I'm trying to… do it right this time. To just be a historian, not a storyteller."
The confession was so stark, so unexpectedly vulnerable, that Elara was left speechless. His writer's block, his reclusiveness—it wasn't just pride. It was penance.
Before she could form a response, Fitzgerald launched himself from his perch on the "Local History" shelf, landing directly on their table. The impact sent a cup of tea tipping over, a wave of lukewarm Earl Grey cascading directly toward the precious, open bundle of letters.
Time seemed to slow. Elara gasped, lunging forward with a cry.
But Cassian was faster. In one fluid motion, he swept the letters aside with one hand and caught the falling teacup with the other, his reflexes startlingly quick. Tea sloshed over his hand and onto the table, but the letters were safe.
They both froze, crouched over the table, his hand gripping the cup, her hand outstretched toward the papers. Their faces were inches apart. She could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the startling flecks of blue in his grey eyes, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.
The air crackled. The frustration, the professional tension, the raw confession—it all coalesced into that single, breathless moment.
He was the one to break it. He slowly righted the cup, his hand steady despite the close call. "The cat," he stated, his voice a low rasp.
"The cat," Elara agreed, her own voice unsteady.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began methodically mopping up the spill. The vulnerability was gone, hidden away again. But the wall wasn't quite as high as it had been.
"The library," he said, not looking at her. "Tomorrow. Ten a.m. It's not efficient to go in the afternoon. The historical society volunteers are there in the morning. They're… helpful."
It was an olive branch. A awkward, gruff one, but an olive branch nonetheless.
Elara nodded, her heart still hammering against her ribs. "Ten a.m. I'll be ready."
He finished cleaning up, gathered his things, and left without another word. But he didn't seem angry. He seemed… thoughtful.
Elara looked at the now-dry spot on the table, then at the letters, safe and sound. The partnership had almost ended before it truly began. But somehow, in the near-disaster, something had shifted. They were no longer just two people bound by a deal.
They were allies who had just survived their first crisis.