Lucien arrives - A raging storm
972 Words
The library was warm with dust and light.
It was the first sunlit room Clara had seen since arriving at Blackthorn Manor—tall windows cracked open, thick golden beams cutting through floating motes. The scent of paper and old bindings filled her lungs.
Mrs. Liria had said only one word to her that morning: “Library.”
No reason. No warning.
So here she was, barefoot on an old crimson rug, her hands folded, standing still in a place that felt too large and too full of secrets.
And then—laughter.
Soft, quick, and entirely out of place.
Clara turned.
A man stood near one of the tall bookshelves, a volume in hand, and smiled at her like they were old friends who had just run into each other in the street.
He was handsome—almost too much. His hair was dark gold, slightly overgrown and swept back in a careless style. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, fingers ink-smudged. His grin was tilted, sharp with confidence.
“Well,” he said, voice warm like melted sugar. “You’re not a servant. And you’re certainly not Ashbourne’s idea of a maid.”
Clara blinked. “I—I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
“Clearly.” He set the book down carefully and stepped toward her. “Lucien Mercier. Scholar. Cataloguer. Occasional heretic.”
He offered a small bow.
She didn’t move.
His eyes sparkled.
“I wasn’t told to expect company,” he added, “but I suppose you weren’t either.”
Clara finally found her voice. “You work for… Mr. Ashbourne?”
“I work near Mr. Ashbourne,” he said with a wink. “It’s a very careful difference.”
Clara’s heartbeat ticked faster. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to be speaking. But Lucien didn’t seem concerned about rules.
“May I?” he said, gesturing toward a chair by the window.
She nodded instinctively.
He sat. Crossed one leg over the other. Looked entirely at home.
“You don’t have to stand like that, you know,” he said gently. “Like you’re being watched.”
“I usually am.”
“Hmm.” He tilted his head. “And who watches you?”
She didn’t answer.
Lucien smiled again softer this time.
“You’re new,” he said. “But not stupid. That’s dangerous.”
Clara’s brow furrowed.
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“May I guess your story?”
She hesitated.
He didn’t wait. “A girl raised somewhere strict and grey. Taught to keep her mouth shut and eyes lowered. Pretty. Too pretty for silence, really. Then one day, someone paid a price, and you ended up here.”
Clara stared at him, stunned.
“Was I close?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
He looked almost sad for a moment. Then the grin returned.
“Well then. Welcome to the manor, little lamb.”
Clara was speechless. She didn’t know what to do, what to think. On one hand there was a man who shattered her like glass only to fix her everyday and out of nowhere there was this man who felt like soft tickles, felt like a warm hug. She was confused whom to choose when the real battle hadn’t even started yet.
Part 2 – Books and Fingers
Lucien reached for a stack of books beside him and opened one on his lap like it was something alive.
“Mr. Ashbourne owns some of the strangest volumes I’ve ever handled,” he said, flipping a page with his ink-stained thumb. “First editions, banned treatises, a few I’m fairly certain don’t legally exist.”
He looked up at Clara with a glint in his eye. “Would you like to see one?”
Clara hesitated. “I—I’m not allowed to touch the books.”
Lucien leaned back in the chair, lifting a brow. “Did he tell you that?”
She didn’t answer.
He smiled again. “Well. If you’re not allowed to touch them, perhaps you’d like to watch while I do.”
Before she could reply, he stood and moved to the far shelf. He ran his fingers along the spines—not like a librarian, but like a man choosing a wine or a woman to dance with.
“Here,” he said, drawing a book from the shelf and bringing it to her. “De Occultis Musica—anonymous, bound in goat leather, smells like the inside of a saint’s coffin. Also, one of the few books Dorian keeps locked in the upper shelf.”
He opened it and let her see the strange musical notations inked in dark crimson.
“Why are you showing me this?” she asked quietly.
“Because I like to see what someone looks like the first time they break a rule,” he said, voice low.
Clara’s breath caught.
Lucien didn’t press the book into her hands. He just held it between them. Waiting. Letting the moment sit.
She stared down at it, at the script that curled like vines across the yellowed pages. She had seen nothing like it before.
“You’re not afraid?” she whispered.
“Oh, I’m terrified,” Lucien replied. “But that’s why it’s fun.”
He stepped back slightly and set the book down on the table. Then, surprisingly gently, he looked at her face and asked:
“Are you?”
Clara didn’t know which question he meant.
Was she afraid?
Was she breaking rules?
Or was he asking something deeper?
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.
Lucien tilted his head and looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve with his mouth.
“Good answer,” he said softly.
- Writer
