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this?”
    “If one waited for the rain to stop before one went out on Muirin Inish, my lady, everyone would stay inside all the time.”
     Mrs. McCann strode back to the door, the keys at her sash jangling. “If that is all, I will leave you to your breakfast while
     I arrange for bathwater and clothing to be sent up. Maeve can change the bed linens while you’re in the library so she won’t
     annoy you with her prattle.”
    Once she was gone, Caroline took her teacup with her to the window and peered out. There were still the jagged rocks and wild
     froth of the ocean far below, even more stark and cold in the light of day. She could see nothing of the horizon through the
     mist. It was as if the world had vanished, leaving only the enchanted land of Muirin Inish.
    She twisted her head to the side and glimpsed the tower at the edge of the house. Its ramparts were also wrapped in the mist,
     like bits of ragged gray silk caught on the old, crumbling stones. It seemed the ideal place for a sad ghost to haunt.
    Caroline trembled and turned away from the tower. She had always been drawn in by a dramatic tale, beginning with her nanny’s
     childhood stories of ancient Irish heroes, gods, fairies, and witches, the more blood and tears the better. She’d never been
     able to escape that fascination with tragedy and grandeur, so different from her own quiet, studious life.
    It was that fascination that led her to working on her book, and to Muirin Inish—and back to Grant Dunmore. But she had to
     remember her work now,
The Chronicle
.It was her reason to be here, not ghost stories. And definitely not Grant Dunmore’s golden-brown eyes.

    “And here is the library.” Mrs. McCann threw open the double doors. “No one comes here except Sir Grant, so I fear it is a
     bit musty.”
    Her tone said that she was quite suspicious of
anyone
who would want to spend their time in such a place, but Caroline barely even heard. She drifted past the housekeeper into
     the vast, enticing room.
    The library was dark and full of drifting shadows. The heavy brown velvet drapes at the windows were drawn back, but very
     little light filtered through the grimy glass. The fire in the grate drove away some of the chill and cast a small circle
     of brightness over the worn chairs and settees gathered close to it. The carpet underfoot was so faded that the colors couldn’t
     be deciphered, and there were no paintings on the paneled walls, only a seascape over the fireplace.
    Caroline remembered Grant’s elegant library in Dublin, where glass cases were filled with glorious ancient treasures. That
     was where she first saw
The Chronicle of Kildare,
nestled among the sheen of gold and amber objets d’art.
    There were no cases of treasures here. Only books. Shelf upon shelf of wonderful books, so high that there were ladders and
     stools to reach them. Caroline ran her finger over the leather binding of one volume, feeling the softness of it under her
     touch, the supple pliability that said it was well read.
    “Are you sure you won’t work in the drawing room, my lady?” Mrs. McCann said. “The footmen can fetch whatever you need from
     in here.”
    Caroline wasn’t sure yet
what
she needed, or where Grant might be hiding
The Chronicle.
The fact that he kept it away from her made her even more eager to see it. “No, I will work in here.”
    Mrs. McCann sniffed. “As you wish, my lady. I will send in some tea, and more lamps if they can be found.”
    “Thank you.” Caroline waited until the door clicked shut behind the housekeeper before she pulled the volume from the shelf.
     It was a French text on astronomy. Interesting perhaps, but not much use for her project. She replaced it and moved on to
     the next and the next.
    The farther she went from the fire, the colder it became. The dark shadows seemed to wrap around her like a chilling wind
     from the storm outside. She drew her borrowed shawl closer over her shoulders. She couldn’t