“I’ve had enough emotional trauma for the day,” he said aloud, letting himself in through a pair of French doors into what he knew was the long, narrow room that used to be a library.
“Really? What’s traumatized you now?”
He froze at the door. Mercy was seated at a card table that had been set up to the right of the doors, a massive mound of books, journals, loose papers, and what looked to be sheet music spilling off the table onto stacks on the floor.
“Or should I say who?”
“Who has done what?” he asked, confused by the fact that she was there in his formerly empty library, that she had set up a desk so quickly with what were clearly Lady Sybilla’s papers and assorted documents, and that he felt a spurt of pleasure at seeing her. He wasn’t happy to see her, he reminded himself. She t
