Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
The haze of ash wood, the rain pattering on the oak-framed windows. The leaves tapping on the panes, the smell of paper filling the air.
Known all too well.
The sound of pages turning, exaggerated gasps and painful sighs, the sound of books closing to stop the readers dismay.
Known all too well.
It was obvious who was there and who wasn't, there was James from the local shoe making shop, Annabelle from the tailor's, and most of all Marigold, the librarian. Or as he had known her, Artemisia's little sister.
He'd talk to her often, it wasn't that they were friends, they had briefly known each other.
If she had found out anything about Chris at all, then he'd be screwed.
He only talked to her because he like astronomy and there were some pretty good books with not only the scientific theories but with actual adventures.
He loved them.
One author described the surface of Neptune like, 'Not even the bottom of the ocean could compare, the moon and stars all gasped in admiration as Poseidon kept his reign over the sea.' He didn't understand why it was so fascinating to him, Poseidon, after all, was his uncle.
He had zoned out, listening to everything brought him bliss, but maybe it was just his brother at his side.
He heard her.
His target.
His victim.
The one he loved.