“These are the books you were asking about,” Miss Compton said boredly. She indicated a single row of ten large, flat-spined leather volumes lining a shelf near the fireplace. “Dry old things, and all in Latin. Heaven knows what they’re about. Some long-dead flora or fauna, I’m told.”

Effie joined Miss Compton at the shelf. She didn’t have to feign interest. Old books were a subject of fascination to her. “May I?” she asked.

Miss Compton granted her permission with a flick of her white hand. “If you wish.”

Effie carefully extracted one of the tall books from the shelf. The medieval binding was sewn on with some manner of cord. It was infinitely fragile in her hand as she opened it. The book’s thin vellum pages were equally fragile—as delicate as butterfly wings. She handled them with care, turning to the book’s first page. It contained a small illumination. Time had faded it, but the image of a man, a snake, a raven, and a lion was still discernable. The illustration was surrounded by handwritten text.

Effie had been taught enough Latin at the Academy to decipher some of the words. “It’s a translation of Aristotle’s Historia Animalium.”

Miss Compton lifted her brows. “I wouldn’t know.”

Effie turned another dry page and another, examining the images and the words. A faint fragrance stirred from within the bindings. The smell of ash, smoke, and leather. And something else.

It was a scent Effie knew, but couldn’t seem to recall. A trace of dusky floral intrigue, edged with the unmistakable sweetness of decay.

“Where did your father find such treasures?” Effie asked.

Miss Compton was occupied in smoothing her skirts. She cast the book a disinterested glance. “They’ve been in our family for generations.”

“Hmm.” Closing the book, Effie slowly returned it to the shelf. Whatever the fragrance was that had tugged at her memory, it was of little consequence at present. She had a more important mystery to solve. “I’m astonished your father doesn’t keep them in his study,” she said, “as precious as they are.”

“It would hardly be convenient for guests to view them there,” Miss Compton replied as though Effie were a half-wit.

“Oh?” Effie gave her young hostess a suitably guileless look. “Is his study so far removed from the rest of the house?”

“It’s adjacent to his bedchamber.” Miss Compton moved toward the door with sharp impatience. “If you’re quite finished?”

Effie’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “Not quite. But don’t worry. I shan’t keep you any longer.” She followed Miss Compton into the hall.

Miss Compton looked back at her with grudging civility. “If those old books truly interest you, you may come again another day. My father wouldn’t mind it, and I daresay you and I will be seeing more of each other during the season. The connection is scarcely avoidable.”