CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was almost ten—an hour since he’d left her alone with the trunk and her continued research. It had taken several minutes for the awkward goodbye, neither wanting to begin it nor knowing how to accomplish it.
“Tomorrow, you should come to my place—see where I live,” he had said before stepping hesitantly off into the darkness with a single wave of his hand and a quiet smile.
“. . . the creation would still be dead . . .” Rachel highlighted the words on a scanned copy of the letter, even as she still thought about him and his gentle demeanor. She shook him from her thoughts to concentrate on her work. “. . . the creation would still be dead . . .” she read again to herself.
The letter had been addressed to Percy Shelley, care of the Hotel de l’Union in Chamonix. T
