Isaac laughed quietly. He reached down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours and then I’ll make us breakfast.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I’m glad you stumbled into my life,” he said, brushing the hair away from her face.

“So am I.” She had never meant anything more.

She’d had all night to think about her feelings for Isaac, and they were far from skinny. They could make this work. She was ready for this; she was ready to do whatever it took to make this happen.

She was still smiling when she heard the front door close and the crunching sound of Isaac’s boots in the snow growing fainter as the snowy castle gardens stole him for themselves. For a few moments, she lay contentedly beneath the duvet. She could just stay here. She didn’t have to move. But then she shook herself and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sent the text.

She showered quickly and slipped into the fresh jeans and jumper she’d grabbed last night before they left the castle. She pulled her hair into a topknot and padded across the landing in her socks to the study. After pushing open the door, she glanced quickly out the window. The coast was clear. With trembling fingers, she reached for the vase and tipped the key into the palm of her hand.

Nory took a deep breath. If she did this, there was no going back. But she was sure it was the right thing to do. She knew how much it hurt Isaac knowing that Heba would never have her rightful place in art history. She also understood, after such a personal betrayal, how he was paralyzed by the fear of losing what he had left of her. Nory could make this right for him; she could fix it and right the wrong that had been done to his family all those years ago.

She had to shake her fingers out to stop them from trembling as she undid the locks and opened the trunk containing Isaac’s family treasures. With the sketchbooks gathered to her chest, she went back to the desk and began to lay the books out. Her phone buzzed.

Here.

Nory blew out a breath and ran down the stairs. She opened the door, and Guy grinned at her.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Bloody awful. Where’s the stuff?”

Nory motioned for him to come in. She poked her head outside the door and looked both ways before closing it.

Nory led him up the stairs. With each step she felt the road of return slip further away from her. She pushed open the study door and pointed Guy in the direction of the open sketchbooks. Guy immediately set to work with the electric fervor that made him such a good journalist.