I walked the halls, letting memories wash over me, giving me something to do while Domenico healed enough to be released. Dozens of doors lined the halls. Large wooden panel doors, some with intricate carvings, others plain, but all were heavy and solid.
I stopped at the detailed tree sculpted into the thick wall of a set of double doors. They were familiar. They led to the best room in the house—the library.
As a child, during the rare times we were allowed to go to my grandfather’s, I had loved visiting the library. It was one of my favorite places in the house, a place where I spent a lot of time—so much so that my grandfather kept a shelf of children’s stories for me, then later young adult novels.
With a twist of the handles I was able to push the great doors open, exposing one of
