Page 50 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“Not drinking,” he said with a reluctant smile. “One drink. Speaking of clichés, here you are, creeping around in the dead of night in your dressing gown, holding your candle aloft in trembling hands. You might as well be in one of those books you’re always reading. Will the ghosts and spectres appear soon?”

“A spectre is a ghost,” I said crossly. “And I’m not trembling, I’m shivering because the floor is cold and so are my feet. Besides which, there are no ghosts in this library, only sulky young men.” This was true; everyone knew that the ghosts kept to the east wing of the house – the part built by the Mad Baron three hundred years earlier.

“What an unromantic imagination you have,” Nick sighed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed. He looked weary, I thought – suddenly older, frown lines etched between his brows.

“Well,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“What about your book?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

“Oh, yes.” I turned to the nearest shelf and plucked one at random. “Got it.” I held it up, and his eyes peeled open.

“The ABC of Bee Culture?” He raised an eyebrow at the gilt title picked out clearly by the light from my candle.

“I have recently become very interested,” I said, “in bees.”

“There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye,” Nick said. He still hadn’t moved from his chair.

“I’m sure the same could be said of anyone,” I replied cautiously, making my way towards the door.

“Are we going to talk about it?” he called.

I turned back to face him. “Talk about what?” I asked, clutching my book so tightly that my fingernails pressed into the leather cover.

“What you’re really doing here,” Nick said calmly. “How you ride better than anyone I know.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I fought to keep my voice even.

He sat back in his chair again and gestured to the seat beside him. “Will you join me for a drink?” he asked.

“It’s late.”

“But you can’t sleep.”

His eyes held mine for a moment, full of challenge. I knew if I decided to leave that he would let me go. He really was asking me. It wasn’t an order.

“Very well,” I said in a clipped voice. “One drink.” I made my way to the other armchair and sat, my feet curled up under me. I set the book and candlestick on the side table that stood between us, next to the silver tray that contained glasses and several bottles of old brandy.

He poured a splash of the brandy into another glass and handed it to me. Our fingers touched. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, his shirt collar undone, revealing a small V of flesh at the base of his neck.

The sparks in the fire jumped, as though it were about to catch light again.

A shiver ran over me, one that had nothing to do with the cold floor.

“For your cold feet,” he said, as if reading my mind. He raised his glass to me.

I took a sip, only a small one, feeling the liquid flames burning down my throat, stinging my eyes.

We sat in silence. The logs in the fire popped and crackled, the sound splintering the air between us.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Who taught you to ride?”

“My father did,” I said. Nick left a space for me to expand on that information, but I didn’t. I simply took another sip of my drink. He was right, my feet were warming up.

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Nothing to add?”

“What else is there to say?” I shrugged. “He’s dead now.” The words fell hard and sharp between us, like shards of something broken that could not be put back together.