“Keeping books is not hoarding!” Nory said fiercely, clutching an aged copy of Heidi to her chest. “It’s protecting history. The written word is the key to the secrets of this world and all the worlds that live in our minds.”

Isaac was smiling at her, and she felt suddenly self-conscious. This was the point where Andrew would normally tell her to rein in her inner book nerd or risk scaring passersby. But Andrew wasn’t here.

“What I’m saying is, having a book collection is not the same as stockpiling bargains from discount stores or keeping your own urine in lemonade bottles . . .”

Isaac raised his eyebrows. She was making this worse. Step away from the books, Nory, she told herself.

“Well, thank you, it’s good to know I’m not being lumped in with the body-fluid collectors.” Isaac laughed.

Nory took a deep breath and reluctantly replaced Heidi, turning her back and hoping Isaac didn’t see her give the book a little sniff before she pushed it gently back into its place. Ahh, that old-paper smell. She closed her eyes.

“I saw that,” he said.

Dammit!

“I was checking for damp. Damp is the archenemy of books.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You are headed for a C-minus,” she said haughtily. “Now, where are your paintings?”

Now it was Isaac’s turn to look uncomfortable, as he sifted through the papers on the table and picked bound sketchbooks from a head-height shelf. Nory sipped her warm wine and waited as Isaac pulled his work together in some kind of order and stacked it, ready for her perusal. He stood back and gestured for Nory to come over.

The first book had the word Spring written in a scrawled hand across the cover. Inside were studies of purple crocus, pale yellow narcissus, bluebells, tulips, primroses, snowdrops, and other spring blooms, all dissected, painted, and labeled in the same scientific botanical style as the hellebore in the kitchen.

“These are just . . .” Nory whispered as she came to the end of Spring and immediately picked up Summer, forgetting to finish her sentence and almost forgetting where she was. She turned the pages slowly, consuming the paintings with her eyes, absorbing the colors, staring at the fluid lines and then closing her eyes in an attempt to collate the images in her mind, so that she could keep them to revisit later.

She laid Summer down and took a sip of her wine before reaching for Autumn. When she looked back up, Isaac was watching her, his face pensive, as though waiting for a blow to fall.

“Is it a C-minus?” he asked.

“Isaac, these are . . .” She fumbled for her words. “They’re beautiful! I mean, really good. You’ve got a talent, Isaac. You could sell these, make prints, sell them framed or as cards, there’s a market for these . . .”

“They’re not for sale.” Isaac smiled grimly.

“Why not? You’re missing a trick here.”

“Because they’re mine.”