to help them along the way, instead of burning up the only batteries she had? Surely they could make it that long.
At least, that was her excuse for heading out to look for him. And she was sticking with it.
She felt her way along the wainscoting on the hallway walls, pretty sure she was heading back toward the stairs. A minute later her sense of direction was, for once, proven to be correct when her hands hit the banister railing. She gingerly moved down the risers, wishing that even a sliver of moonlight was easing through the stained glass windows bordering the huge front door, down in the foyer below. No such luck. Her night vision, which had adjusted well with the firelight, was once again reduced to nothing. She paused at the foot of the stairs, keeping one hand on the newel post as she tried to figure out which way to launch herself with the least chance she’d crash into something extremely expensive, and extremely breakable.
Just then an actual crash resounded from somewhere to her right, followed by a thump, a grunt, and a rather long string of curse words.
“Trevor?” she called out, but got no response. Dear God, what if he’d gotten hurt? At least the curse words proved he’d survived whatever it was that had happened. “Where are you?”
All she got back was a groan. Oh, no, he was in too much pain to shout and direct her to his whereabouts. The best she could do was to strike out blindly in the direction of the crash, and hope she didn’t end up in similar circumstances.
“Did the batteries wear out already?” she called, more just to hear her own voice and help to stay steady, than because she really expected him to answer. Plus, if he could hear her, he’d know she was actively trying to find him. “You’ve been gone a long time. I was worried, so I came looking for you.” Her outstretched fingertips jabbed into a wall. A very hard wall. Now she was the one swallowing a string of swear words as she shook the life back into her fingers, then curled them into a protective ball for a moment, before reaching out more slowly, finding the wall, and spreading her palms wide on the smooth surface. She took one careful step at a time, not familiar with the hallway, or the objects that were probably lining it. If the rest of the house was any indication, Lionel liked to collect things, or hold on to things others in his family tree had collected. Either way, there was a better than average chance she was going to crash into something, and the last thing they needed was for both of them to be hurt.
“I’m coming,” she called out. “I’m just not familiar with the floor plan, so I’m using the Braille method out here and it’s taking some time.”
There was another thud, then the sound of something tumbling over, followed by another groan, a few more choice swear words, and, finally, Trevor’s voice. “I’m in Lionel’s personal study,” he said, sounding none too happy about the fact.
“Excellent,” she called back. “And just where might that be?”
“Third door—it’s a double door—on your right.”
“Are you okay?” She kept skimming one hand lightly along the wall, trying to keep the rest of her body as close to the center of the hall as she could.
“Considering I was very recently wearing a good portion of Lionel’s personal library, I suppose I could be worse.”
“Oh, my God, what happened?” He sounded relatively close, like she was almost there, but there was no glow emanating into the hall. “You’re okay, though? I mean, nothing broken?”
“Well, your flashlight didn’t fare too well. Sorry.”
Her fingertips hit the molding around the doorframe and she paused in the open doorway, not that it did any good, because she couldn’t see a damn thing inside the room. “Trevor?”
“Present and mostly accounted for,” came his disembodied voice, from somewhere in the far corner of the room.
“What happened? Where are you? I mean, I know you’re in here, but can you direct me?”
“Just stay in the doorway. There are books everywhere and the damn ladder landed somewhere.”
“Ladder? What—never mind. Do you need help? Should I call 911?”
“I’ll be okay, just as soon as I get”—he paused, and there was a loud grunting noise, then an odd grinding noise. “Well…I’ll be damned. That explains a lot.”
“What explains a lot?” Emma asked, growing more frustrated by the moment. “Did you find any candles? Because it would help tremendously if I could see what’s what right now.”
“You’re telling me. Yes, on the candles. No, however, on matches or a lighter. I don’t suppose you smoke?”
“Ew.”
“Ditto, but the match holder by the mantel in here was empty.”
“We had matches upstairs in the parlor, remember? You could have just brought them up there. And how did you end up with Lionel’s library crashing down on your head, anyway? Do you need help getting unpinned? Assuming you’re pinned, but—”
“You’re babbling.”
“Stress. I’m an imperfect human. It happens.”
She was surprised to hear him chuckle.
“That was amusing?”
“I’m an imperfect human, too. Quite, at the moment. I just—I like your style, Curls.”
“Curls—” She stopped, not wanting to know why he felt compelled to give her a nickname, but mostly because she kind of liked it, and more mostly because, whereas to her it would be cute and a little romantic, to him it was probably something he called his kid sister. So why ruin the fantasy now? “Thanks. Now, direct me over there and—”
“I really don’t need help, I just—”
“Well, you’re going to get it, regardless, so stop whining and tell me where you are. And what was that ‘I’ll be damned’ comment about?”
There was a pause. A longer pause than she felt the question warranted.
“Trevor?”
“I—why don’t you go back up with the dogs, they’re probably getting worried. I’ll be up shortly.”
“Would that be kind of like ‘I’ll check back in with you’? Because you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t rush to buy into that.”
“You get a little surly when you’re stressed.”
And he sounded way too damn amused by that, too. “Which apparently brings out all that patronizing condescension in you.”
He grunted, then there was a another sound of something tumbling, which she assumed was a pile of books. “Sorry,” he managed, his voice a bit tighter. “It wasn’t meant to come off that way. Like I said, I like your style.”
“You mean surly and babbling? Silly me, why didn’t I think of trying that angle out more often with guys?”
“You coming on to me, then, Curls?” he asked, not sounding remotely serious about the assumption,
