Chapter 9
Done for the day, more or less, Charlie bounded back up to his room, along two flights of stairs and past gilt-edged portraits of gentlemen in improbable outfits full of feathers. He could stay up and do more work—Amber was, presently buried in another giant tome about canal expansion and river shipping—and in fact the following night and the two of them plus Stephen had planned to head down to the pub in the village.
But he did have a plan, tonight.
He wanted to go down and find the hermitage, that luscious jewel-box of time and care, of fresh-baked biscuits and steam-swirled chamomile.
He wanted to see Lionel again, to talk, or possibly for some kissing, but certainly for a conversation. He wanted Lionel to know that, whatever happened, they were friends: Lionel was not
