He gave her a look that was perfectly Sheridan—a bit wincing, a bit self-deprecating, and yet fully committed to whatever path he’d decided upon without a single care to whatever bystanders might be in the way. “Well, you see . . . that is . . . well, I’m the buyer who hired them.”

Bram was pacing, still clutching his empty teacup. Sheridan was hunched into a chair at the head of the library table, looking as though he were trying to keep a mental list of the dozens of questions that had already been fired at him. Casek and Mabena had both taken seats too, and Beth had pulled out a chair across from Sheridan but failed to sit in it, gripping it tightly instead as she glared at him.

Libby had stayed where she was, since her spot afforded a view of all the faces at the table. And she was doubly glad of it when Oliver edged his way to her side.

“I can’t believe this.” A sentiment they were no doubt all thinking for different reasons, but it was her brother who spat out the words at his friend. “You mean to tell me you had ulterior motives for coming here? To check up on . . . on—what exactly? One of your baffling archaeological obsessions?”

“It’s hardly baffling. Family history, actually, you know—a bit.” Sheridan huffed. “I’ve told you before we’re descended from Prince Rupert, haven’t I? He served with Mucknell during the Civil War. And why did you think I was so eager to join you in the Scillies?”

Having reached the opposite wall, Bram pivoted. “To see your fiancée.”

“I am not his fiancée!” Libby probably shouldn’t have shifted closer to Oliver when she said it. It just brought Bram’s thundering attention back to her, and it was clearly threatening enough to scare even the kitten. Darling squirmed out of her hold and leaped to the ground, pouncing on a tassel of the rug as if it were a mouse.

Prince Rupert . . . Wasn’t he the pirate prince Tas-gwyn had mentioned? She looked over at Oliver, who was clearly piecing the same thing together. Her own mind went from pirate prince to the start of Beth’s unfinished fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived on an island of rocks and bones, with no one to keep her company aside from the fairies. All her life she’d danced with them to the tunes they played on their magical pipes, the tunes echoed by deep voices from the rock itself. One day, however, the music stopped.

“All right,” Oliver said in that calm voice of his that could bring order to any chaos—at least when it was a chaos of people. “So, Lord Sheridan, you have an interest in information on Prince Rupert of the Rhine and, by extension, Vice Admiral Sir John Mucknell. Is that right?”