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firm his grasp was and how quickly the business of a handshake could be accomplished.
    I didn’t want him to let go.
    She ignored the nonsensical thought and turned her attention back to the business at hand. Dr. Rowan West was giving her a tour of the house and her new working environment. The ground floor was taken up by the entry way and receiving area, the waiting room, a small exam room (though most of his patients preferred to be seen at their own homes) and doctor’s office, a library, and Mr. Carter’s quarters. The first floor provided for bedrooms and an extremely interesting private study and library that she caught only a fleeting glimpse of through a partially opened door as they strolled past. The second floor was more utilitarian, though the hallway she caught a glimpse of was still wonderfully appointed with antiques, and Gayle tried not to wonder what else was in store.
    â€œThis is where you will be spending most of your time, on the third floor.” Rowan answered her unspoken question. “Above you are the servants’ quarters and a bit of storage, but your room is just off of the laboratory—a convenience you’ll come to appreciate.
    â€œThe laboratory is”—he pushed open a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway and stood aside to let her go in ahead of him—“my pride and joy.”
    In a room that was clearly designed as a solarium, it was a decadent and breathtaking sight to behold. Rather than merely housing one or two windows, the entire back wall was fanciful wrought iron inset with clear-blown glass to give the sun a chance to illuminate every corner it could. And instead of plush chairs for some ladies’ embroidering or tables for letter writing and china painting, the female sensibilities had given way to a true working laboratory with long waist-high tables and dark-stained stools.
    â€œIt can be drafty, but I’ve been keeping it so warm with the braziers you should be comfortable enough for the work.”
    â€œAnd to think most people have greenhouses!” she mused aloud, her fingertips tracing gently along the smooth worktable’s surface. It was nothing like the grim rooms the village surgeon back home used. That had been a small brick building of poor means next to the blacksmith and not much of an example to go by.
    But this! This was just as she’d hoped. Clean and open, it was a long rectangle of a room, the narrow worktable set in the room’s center to run its length. Shelves of reference books, boxes, and various tools were set floor to ceiling along the inside walls, but the wall of fanciful flowerscrolled ironwork and glass had been left free of any obstructions, ensuring that the light could be used from every vantage.
    In a tall cabinet in the corner, neatly labeled jars contained every hue of powder in black, ivory, and white alongside tins of compounds and chemicals she could only guess at. Also along the inside wall, on an ancient work surface with an untold number of burn marks and unique scars, was a configuration of burners and beakers with rubber tubing connecting various vessels and tying them all together for some unknown purpose.
    Only unknown for a time. Soon, I’ll understand what he’s doing here and I will be a part of it! Perhaps even help him in some great discovery ...
    She turned about, admiring all of it, from the elegant shadows that the iron made on the wooden floor to the Latin motto carved into the door frame they’d just come through. “Veritas vos liberabit.”
    â€œThe truth shall make you free,” he translated softly, taking a seat at the table to give her room to explore. “Not very original, but my great-great-grandfather had a love for the classics.”
    â€œI think it would apply as well today.”
    â€œOf course, it does. I had a schoolmate that jested that it was a sad thing that truth didn’t make you richer or happier, and now