Free Secrets of Castillo del Arco by Trish Morey

the fried fish and calamari she had prepared, or maybe it was the rich
risotto al nero di seppa
made with squid ink, which Gabriella found surprisingly delicate, that served to soothe Raoul’s dark mood. Or maybe it was just that his appointment had gone well. But, whatever the reason, Raoul was back to his charming best when he returned to the apartment. When he suggested an evening walking-tour of Venice after dinner, she could not resist the chance to explore the city. The air was heavier tonight, full of humidity as a cooler change worked through, but for now it was still warm. Raoul reacquainted her with the big tourist sites, with the highly ornate Basilica di San Marco and the grand Palazzo Ducale in St Mark’s Square where once long ago she’d fed and raced after pigeons with her friends. He pointed out the domed bell-tower of San Giorgio Maggiore standing on its own island across the dark slapping waters. He took her to the Rialto Bridge, the stone wonder spanning the broad Grand Canal, its central portico lit up so it looked like a grand lady dressed up for a night out. Then he showed her placesthat were off the main trails, wending his way through the darkening city, showing her architectural treasures and little-known pictures carved into stone walls and known only to those who knew Venice beyond the tourist routes.
    He could do this
, he decided as he led her to a tiny trattoria overlooking the lagoon for coffee. He could force back that black tide inside him and be civil—pleasant, even. He could be interested and attentive. And he could do this not just because he had to but because he honestly wanted to know more about her, more about those lost years when he had missed out on knowing her.
    ‘What made you decide to become a librarian?’ he asked, watching the ends of her hair play on the soft breeze as she sat down. She’d tied her hair back in a loose knot behind her head before they’d come out, but tendrils had worked their way loose and now danced around her face. He envied them their playfulness. His fingertips itched to brush them away, to linger on her soft skin …
    Their coffee arrived; she thanked the waiter and looked back at him, her eyes bright and clear, smoothing the hair from her brow and tucking it behind her ears. ‘I don’t think there was ever a time I didn’t want to do something to do with books. I actually think my profession chose me.’
    He realised he liked listening to her too. He liked the sound of her accent, the blend of half-French, half-English, the best of both, Cognac over cream.
    ‘Tell me what you love about it,’ he urged.
    ‘It’s just working with books, all of them, every oneof them an entire world between the covers. Every new one is a discovery and until you dip into them you just never know what’s inside: new worlds; new discoveries; new characters who leap off the page. It’s all there, just waiting for you to open the cover and turn the page.’
    She was so bright, so passionate, and even while he felt the darkness rise, even as his gut churned and rebelled, still it was impossible not to feel that light shine out from her and warm him in places where light had not touched for so long.
    ‘The books in my library,’ he bit out, coming up with an idea that might hold her, something to keep her interest while she stayed. ‘I don’t even know what’s there.’
    He watched her brow pucker as she sensed the almost-crime. ‘Maybe while I’m here—if you didn’t mind, that is—maybe I could look at them and catalogue them for you.’
    ‘You would do that for me?’
    ‘I would love to.’
    She was so excited, he believed she would.
    ‘What about you?’ she asked as he finished his coffee, so suddenly that he was taken by surprise.
    ‘What about me?’
    ‘What have you been doing all these years?’
    Standing still
.
    Trying to forget
.
    ‘Nothing half as interesting as you.’
    She tilted her head. ‘I was sorry to hear that your wife