Page 91 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

“Do be serious.” His silver eye sharpened, but she was not going to have this mortifying conversation with him again. And that was that. “Go…teach someone something.”

He crossed his arms. “I am not leaving you alone, Pippa.”

“The Hunt does not break an oath,” she reminded him. “That’s rather the point.”

“They are not the current danger.”

She looked at him pointedly. “No, Your Majesty, they are not.” And then she slapped his boots right off the table like any Librarian worth her salt, Fae king or not.

He lowered them to the ground, his smile returning, this time with a wicked, considering gleam. Something responded in her belly, warm and melting, nearly swooping. She did not have time to analyze any such warmth or swooping of any kind. Melting was strictly out of the question.

There was work to be done.

“If you are quite finished being cryptic, I need more information, Professor Thorn.” Best to stay focused. Sensible. She refused to feel a suffusing glow.

Very well, she refused to show that she felt any such thing.

No melting, no swooping. No glowing. Facts. Information.

The glow lingered. It moved lazily to her lips, the backs of her knees. Most inconvenient.

She went to one of the cupboards, searching for the right drawer. She checked the card, marked with symbols for witches and Librarians and witch Librarians. Old marks, long faded. “Apparently the Red Grimoire has not been checked out by anyone in over three hundred years. The last person who inquired about it was a Mr. Cornelius Yarrow.” She went straight to the well-worn copy of the Witches’ Debrett’s. “And he’s Fae,” she said excitedly.

Lachlan stood slowly. “And so likely still alive.”

“Exactly,” Pippa said. “He might remember something about it. And we are in luck, as he is somewhat of a bibliophile.”

“It’s a better lead than we’ve found so far.” He looked impressed. Proud, even. “Well done, wisp.”

That praise, spoken in his low, husky voice, ought to have been registered with all of the other very dangerous and very lethal magics on Lyonesse. Right next to the dagger that took requests when it wasn’t locked in an iron box filled with salt. Or the love spell that had once caused a riot in Haven—mostly over a great many naked bodies frolicking in the village square fountain.

Lachlan stepped closer, raising an eyebrow.

The shimmering thread of desire snapped under the sharp crack of a teacup saucer slamming onto the table.

“Miss Cavendish,” Mirs Pettigrew said coldly. “You are not permitted in this section any longer. I am quite certain you can find something more productive to do with your time, such as finding yourself a new post.”

Lachlan’s smile died. “What the hell?”