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me.”
    She danced out of the way before Amelia could poke her in the ribs. As she walked away, Amelia sighed. Prudence’s step was lighter than it had been when she left the drawing room, but her dilemma was far from solved.
    That left Amelia alone in the hall. She wouldn’t return to the drawing room. The mothers were laughing hysterically about something, and the sound of it wafted through the open door — the ratafia was doing its trick. Going back there would be like walking into a den of drunken hyenas. They were sure to gnaw on the bones of Amelia’s shortcomings as a late-night snack.
    It was too early to retire, though. She would rather cut her hand off with her needle than take up her embroidery again. She could go to her room, but her writing desk wasn’t unpacked.
    She wandered down the hall, away from the staircase, slipping past the drawing room door toward the rooms beyond it. Somewhere there was a library, and while Lady Carnach had not given them a full tour yet, she had claimed it was lovely.
    Amelia found it on the third attempt, after stumbling across a well equipped but disused music room and another, smaller salon. None of the candles were lit, but the moon was nearly full. The light streaming in through the uncovered windows was bright enough to illuminate the room. Lady Carnach promised loveliness, but this was something else altogether. It was a magical space, this room, the kind of library she dreamed of having.
    The size of it dazed her. The room was long, narrow, and two stories tall, with multiple doors to the hall and an equal number of French doors giving out onto a stone terrace overlooking the back gardens. Thick Aubusson carpets in the blues and greys of the MacCabe coat of arms warmed the chilly floors, complementing the comfortable chairs arranged in clusters by the windows. A small balcony circled the room, accessing the second level from a spiraling wooden staircase in one corner.
    She walked down the first wall, running her hand over the books neatly arranged on the shelf. She loved the feel of book spines — some cracked with age and use, others smooth and sleek, like the book was a work of art. The light was too dim to make out the titles, but there were hundreds, likely thousands, of books in the room. It would take a lifetime to read them all.
    By the time she reached the window, she was already in love. She never felt this passion for people — never let herself feel this passion, after she had realized the threat it posed to her independence. But books — books were safe. She could let herself long for this room.
    Amelia lit a candle on one of the tables, shielding the flame as she looked around the room again. The books were well ordered, and it took only a few minutes to find a section of recent novels shelved between memoirs and poetry on the far wall. All the latest volumes were there. Either this library was a showpiece to impress guests, or at least one person in the castle was an avid reader.
    She skimmed her fingers over the titles. Her light glanced off the gilt lettering. There were novels by Ann Radcliffe, Horace Walpole, and a wide variety of anonymous or pseudonymous authors. And there, near the end, was a slim red-bound book: The Unconquered Heiress .
    Amelia lifted the volume from the shelf and turned it over in her hand. It had journeyed all the way from London to the Highlands and found its way into this library. She felt a brief flare of pride. And then, as always, annoyance.
    Where her name should have been engraved, there was the lie that protected her: “A Novel by A.S. Rosefield.”
    She frowned at the letters. If the ton knew of her writing, she would likely be cast out. She didn’t want to be ruined. But how would it feel to see her real name on the cover instead?
    Would it give meaning to all the lonely hours she spent weaving stories in her room?
    Someone rapped on the French door to her right, startling her. The glare of her candle obscured the