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“If it grows here.”

He came around the table. Her attention stayed on the page as she explained the discrepancy, and she did not look up to see whether he was impressed. Leaning closer to follow the small numbers beneath the plate, Tristan caught the faint, dry scent of graphite from her hand. A second green volume stood on the shelf behind her.

“That may be part of the same set,” he said.

Lydia turned and reached for it. As she pulled it free, a loose sheet slipped from between the pages. She caught at the paper and hissed softly. The sheet fell to the floor.

“What is it?”

“The edge caught my finger.”

A bright red line appeared near the tip of her forefinger. Tristan took out his handkerchief. “May I?”

She hesitated, then extended her hand. He folded the linen over the small cut at her fingertip. “Hold that there.”

She pressed it with her thumb while he went to the bell. “It is a paper cut,” she said. “The book has made its position clear.”

“Its scholarship was already in doubt.”

“You need not trouble anyone.”

“Some water will hardly disrupt the household.”

She watched him ring, and made no further objection. When the footman appeared, Tristan asked for clean water, a cloth, and a narrow strip of linen. He returned to the table. Lydia was examining the small red mark spreading through his handkerchief. “I have marked your handkerchief.”

“A devastating loss.”

Her mouth twitched. “You might recover.”

“With time.”

She glanced up then, caught between suspicion and amusement. He deserved both. The footman returned with a basin and the linen. Tristan thanked him, waited for the door to close, and pulled out the chair nearest Lydia. “You may as well sit.”

She did, resting her hand on the edge of the table. He unfolded the handkerchief carefully. The bleeding had nearly stopped, though a little blood had dried along the side of her finger. “Will you let me clean it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He dampened the cloth and gently took her hand. Graphite dusted her middle finger while a trace of blue pigment lingered beside one short nail. He turned her hand toward the light and carefully wiped the blood away, noticing the telltale marks of her artistic pursuits. She drew her finger back slightly when the cloth reached the cut.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It stings. That is all.” She did not draw back again.

He adjusted his grip. She went quiet. As he finished, her hand settled more fully into his palm, and the permission was renewed with every second. “The cut is shallow.”

“I thought it must be.”

“You sound disappointed in my discovery.”

A small smile appeared. “Only relieved that we agree.”

He reached for the strip of linen. “This should keep it from catching while you turn the pages.”

“That would be useful.”

He wrapped the strip around her finger and tied the knot away from the cut, conscious of her other fingers resting lightly against his wrist. She made no attempt to move them, and he found himself reluctant to let go. He checked that the bandage was loose enough. “Try bending it.” She did.

“Comfortable?”