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Back The Spice King
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Books by Elizabeth Camden
  3. Title Page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Historical Note
  47. Questions for Discussion
  48. In 2020, look forCaroline Delacroix’sstory in
  49. About the Author
  50. Back Ads
  51. Back Cover

She gathered up her skirts and strode toward the small building, eyeing the lines of the roof and composition of the windows. From the time Annabelle was old enough to walk, she had scrambled up into haylofts and climbed on rooftops to help her father with repairs. She could get into that shed.

The padlock held firm, and the window wouldn’t budge. The only other way in was a narrow transom window over the door. In hot weather, that window probably provided plenty of relief by cracking it open to let the hot air out.

Annabelle scurried to the barn for a ladder and a crowbar. Five minutes later, she’d centered the ladder beneath the transom window, hoisted herself up, and begun prying the window open.

It didn’t take long, for the window opened easily. She found a foothold on the doorknob, hiked up her skirts, then got both feet through the opening. Holding on to the lip of the roof, she paused for a quick prayer.

Please, she whispered. Please let this be nothing.

She wiggled inside, the window frame scraping her spine as she dropped to the ground.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness . . . but this was no ordinary shed. The hardwood floor gleamed with a coat of varnish, and a bookcase weighed down with books and binders covered one wall. This was a well-used study, cozy and fully stocked, complete with a desk, a typewriter, and shelves full of books.

It hurt to breathe. Maybe this didn’t mean anything. There could be any number of reasons this shed was fully furnished and obviously well used. Maybe Lester or Tabitha had set it up as a private study. It didn’t have to belong to Gray. He could still be innocent.

She wandered to the bookcase, leaning in to study the titles.

Cuba. Navy. Spanish-American War. It was hard to keep reading as the trembling took over. This still could be entirely innocent. Gray was a well-educated man who was entitled to have political opinions and read whatever he wanted, even if it was critical of the government.

It was too hard to keep standing, so she yanked the desk chair back, collapsing into it. The desk stood before her—a very nice desk with brass knobs and inlaid wood. Searching these drawers was as terrifying as opening Pandora’s box, but it had to be done.