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“Can I—” I stopped myself. “Never mind. I'm sure they're too delicate.”

August spoke to the librarian who'd appeared in the doorway. “Would it be possible for Miss Whitmore to examine some of the manuscripts? Under supervision, of course.”

The librarian—an elderly man with kind eyes—studied me for a moment. “You're a scholar, miss?”

“Historian,” I said.

He smiled. “Then you'll appreciate these. Come.”

He unlocked one of the cases and carefully lifted out a manuscript, laying it on the table. “Twelfth century. A chronicle of Oxford's founding legends. Handle it gently, if you would.”

I approached the table like it was an altar. Because in a way, it was. This book was older than most countries. Had survived wars, fires, the dissolution of the monasteries, centuries of neglect and preservation and human history.

My fingers trembled as I touched the edge of the page. The parchment was butter-soft, the ink still dark. Someone had written this by hand, by candlelight, probably in some monastery that no longer existed. And here it was. Still surviving. Still telling its story.

“What does it say?” August asked, and I realized he'd moved to stand beside me.

I translated as I read, my Latin rusty but serviceable. “In the year of our Lord 1096, the great scholar Theobald established his school in Oxford. . .” I traced the illuminated capital without quite touching it. “This is one of the earliest references to Oxford as a center of learning.”

I kept reading, explaining the historical context as I went—the early scholars, the conflicts with townspeople, the gradual establishment that would become one of the world's greatest universities.

And the whole time, I was aware of August beside me. Not interrupting. Just listening. Watching.

I read faster, translating and explaining, my hands moving as I talked, my whole body animated by the sheer joy of it. This was what I loved. What I'd always loved. History wasn't just dates and events. It was lives. Real people who'd loved and feared and hoped and died.

I looked up from the manuscript to find August watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing.” But he didn't look away. “I've just never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy.” The word was quiet, almost wondering. “You smile when you talk about history. Did you know that?”

I hadn't known. Didn't know what to do with the way he was looking at me now—like I was something rare and precious instead of something to solve.

“Thank you,” I said, the words inadequate for what I was feeling. “For bringing me here.”

“I thought you'd like it.”

“Like it?” I laughed, gestured at the manuscripts surrounding us. “August, this is—these are some of the most important documents in English history. This is. . .” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Why did you really bring me here?”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Because last night you asked me to prove something. I'm proving it.”

“Proving what?”

“That I see you.” He took a step closer. “Not just a problem to solve or a mystery to unravel. I see you, Lily. The way you light up when you talk about history. The way you get lost in books. The way you look at the world like everything in it matters.” Another step. “I wanted you to know that.”

My breath caught. We were close now. Close enough I could smell the familiar scent of him. Close enough that my pulse stuttered.

“August,” I whispered.

“You look at these books like they're treasures,” he said, voice rough. “Like they're miracles. I wish. . .” He stopped, shook his head.

“What?” The word came out barely audible.

“I wish you'd look at me like that. Just once.”