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eyes gave him a rush of warmth he couldn’t admit, even to himself. He was sure it must be sinful.
    He knew better than to try to take her to the scriptorium; even he was not allowed to interrupt the scribes’ devotions. But he’d been instructed to show her the High Cross, after all, where the abbey’s neighbors and pilgrims met to celebrate Mass. On the way, they could pass by the chapel.
    The stone building was empty, as Aidan had hoped. Worship eight times a day left even the most devout with little will to visit between the Divine Hours, unless to do penance. One wizened monk guarded the relics most of the time, of course, but Aidan knew that he often made a leisurely visit to the privy about now. The shuffling fellow had returned several times to find Aidan admiring books, and he’d only shooed the novice away with a toothless smile. Aidan hoped his patience, if needed at all, would stretch a bit farther.
    At the chapel’s doorway, Aidan shushed Lana and
warned her not to set even a toe inside. Then he slipped alone to the altar, where he knelt, crossed himself, and whispered a heartfelt prayer before rising again. A Gospels lay on the altar before him. The nearby lectern held a Book of Hours and a missal as well. None were the abbey’s finest, by any means; those were too valuable for daily use. But Aidan had inspected these volumes before, and even the worst earned his respect.
    He brought the Book of Hours back to the doorway. After reminding her not to touch it, Aidan held the book for Lana to see and turned a few pages to show the illumination on several. He kept his ears tuned for footsteps.
    â€œI can’t believe you can read this,” she breathed. “Or write it.” She graced him with a look of open admiration.
    â€œWell … most of it,” he said, sinful pride tugging at him and tingling his scalp. It had not been easy to learn a language so different from what he spoke every day, and even more mind-boggling to capture spoken words from out of the air and shape them in ink. Making sounds into pictures that a reader could turn back into sounds felt to him almost like magic. Caressing a line of script with his thumb, he added, “I’m still learning.”
    When he glanced back up at her, she was studying him, not the illumination.
    The book felt suddenly heavy and dangerous in his hands. He hurried to replace it. Once it rested on the
lectern again, his heart pounded at the liberty he’d taken. He walked slowly back outside, pondering the loss of sense that Lana seemed to effect on him.
    â€œAnd that’s what you do all day?” she asked, when he drew close. “Draw words and cunning little patterns and creatures?”
    â€œNot yet,” he admitted. “But I will, once I’ve apprenticed enough. If you will help me by minding the rules,” he added pointedly.
    â€œYou haven’t told me any yet,” she protested.
    Forced to admit she was right, he finished her tour and then led her toward the kitchen, off by itself near the back gate because of the danger of fire. On the way he described the constraints of humility and modesty and the importance of washing and the many times to be quiet.
    â€œIs there a tree drawn in one of those books?” she interrupted. “The Trees of Life or of Knowledge that Father Niall talks about?”
    â€œDid you hear anything I’ve said?” he demanded.
    A grin played on her face. “Some of it. I’ll listen better after you answer my question.”
    Huffing, Aidan resisted the desire to stomp. Talking with her was nothing like talking to the other monks or novices, not even Rory. It reminded him more of horseplay with his brothers and sharp-tongued little sister at home.
How accustomed he’d grown to silence and nodding! A pang of homesickness amplified his annoyance.
    He sulked until he realized that treating Lana to silence would only likely hurt him. Then he