A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(61)

Noir with the letters. Look for connections.”

“Yes!” I squeezed his arm. “That’s perfect. Now if we only can make the librarians understand us.”

He doffed his hat playfully. “You just leave that to me, Empress.”

Moments later, we reached the library’s entrance on the other side. “This library is old,” Daniel said as we passed through an archway into a flower-filled courtyard. People milled about, lost in their books, their feet crackling on the gravel. “And as it ages, it keeps getting bigger and bigger. More space and more books.” He grinned and held open an enormous oak door for me. Beyond was a simple marble-floored hall with a winding staircase.

The moment I stepped inside, I eased out a breath I hadn’t even known was trapped. Being in a library was like a gentle balm. No matter the city, no matter the time, you always know what you’ll find. My home was halfway around the globe, yet here was something as familiar to me as myself.

The last time I had been in a library, Marcus had tried to kill me—but not even that could upset me now. I could forget about everything here. Let it fade into a meaningless whir in the back of my brain . . .

Daniel nodded to a dark wood door at my right. “This way, Empress.” He set his heel against the door and turned to face me. “Prepare to be amazed.” Then he rocked back, and the door creaked open.

My heart hitched. I gasped.

Spanning before me was row after row of desks. There was nothing to distract the devoted reader.

Gaping, I scuffed into the room and stared at the ceiling’s domes and circular skylights. Then I caught sight of the walls, and somehow my mouth fell open even farther. From floor to ceiling were shelves—three floors of shelves, to be precise.

“That’s not even the beginning,” Daniel whispered. “Le magasin central is where most of the books are actually kept.” He pointed straight ahead, to where the floor sank down into a recessed area of endless shelves.

“Sakes alive,” I breathed. “Where do we even begin?”

He flashed his eyebrows and tugged me over to the nearest desk. “You can start by organizin’ all your brother’s letters. I’ll find the reading material.” He pulled out a gold-upholstered chair, helped me sit, and then swept me an easy bow.

This time I did melt. The instant he twirled around, I sank back into my seat like butter on a hot skillet. Whatever oddness had been between us, it was gone now. The air was easy. Daniel was simply

Daniel, and I was simply Eleanor.

I laid out all my letters, and soon enough, Daniel came marching back with a stack of books teetering in his arms. He eased them onto the desk. “We’ll start with these. The librarian’s going to bring us anything else he finds.”

Snagging the top book— Étude des Grimoires— I flipped to the index. Instantly, a giggle broke through my lips. “It’s here!” I tapped the page. “Le Dragon Noir. ”

“And here’s La poule noire.” Daniel leaned over my shoulder and planted a finger on the opposite page. “The Black Pullet. Not a bad start, Empress.”

All I could manage was a nod. He was so close—so close that I could see the stubble he had missed shaving. Could see each muscle in his jaw.

But it was the smell of him that almost undid me. Metal and salt and everything he had always smelled of came rushing into my nose, and with it came the memories. Swirling. Intense.

My back to the lamppost. His hands cradling my face. His lips pressed fiercely to mine.

A low moan escaped my mouth.

Daniel flinched, his face jerking toward me.

I clamped a hand over my mouth. Oh God. Please say I did not make that noise aloud.

His brow knit with concern. “Are you all right?”

I nodded frantically, my eyes nearly popping from my skull. “Hungry,” I said behind my hand.

“Sorry.”

“Well, we can eat after we finish this.” Grinning, he hooked his heel around the chair next to mine, drew it out, and plopped down.

I bowed over my book and avoided meeting his gaze. For several moments I could feel him watching me. It made me hot—miserably, boiling hot—and just when I thought I would explode with sweat and flushed cheeks, he turned away.

I drew in a long, shaky breath, and when I finally had the courage to glance at Daniel, it was to find him fully focused on my letters.

“Your brother,” he drawled, “makes about as much sense to me as French politics.”

“It makes no sense to me either.”

“Who’s this Ollie fellow, d’you suppose?”

“Uh . . .” I bit the inside of my mouth. What could I say?

“Or Monsieur Girard in the last one?” Daniel went on, oblivious to my sudden panic. “Or this random hackney driver?”

I sank back in my chair. “I-I don’t know. Perhaps we should focus on the books first.” I grabbed up the letters and shoved them aside with far more force than necessary. But again, Daniel didn’t seem to notice. He simply shrugged, and in a matter of minutes we had sunk into a rhythm. Daniel scanned indexes, I marked pages, and the librarian—a soft-spoken Frenchman—continued to bring us book after book.

Minutes slid into hours, and after examining forty-seven different books and determining that only thirteen were useful, we came to the final text in our stack: Napoléon et la campagne d’Égypte.