“What do you think of King Mazus?” I ask, hoping to ease into the conversation carefully.

Her brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know him very well,” I say slowly. “I was… surprised to receive these books from him. I’m just curious about him, I guess.” Hopefully that is open ended enough.

“We are taught from an early age about the Golden King. He’s ruled Velmara for hundreds and hundreds of years, and the kingdom has prospered under his leadership,” she responds by rote. The words sound rehearsed, and her eyes almost look distant, like she’s dissociating from what she says.

I press further. “That doesn’t sound like an answer to my question.” I keep my expression cool, giving nothing away as I stare at her. Her shoulders tense for the briefest moment. There’s something here.

“As one of the youngest librarians, I’m often assigned the task of documenting the King’s speeches or other informational materials. I file them away in the section on his rule and cross-check his words against information in the archives.” Her eyes are filled with meaning, but I don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. I’m about to ask her to speak plainly when she abruptly changes the subject. “Would you like some tea? I’d like to go make myself a cup.” Before I can even answer her question, she’s gone, slipping down the stairs in a blur. The conversation clearly made her uncomfortable, but for what reason, I can’t say.

When she returns, two mugs of steaming tea in her hands, I don’t continue the conversation. We sit side by side in silence, each reading one of Mazus’s books. Genevieve takes furious notes as her eyes dart across the pages of the book on Velmara. After only an hour, she’s filled pages and pages with her scribbles. I want to examine them, curious what she’s found that’s so noteworthy, but I leave it be. I clearly spooked her with my questions about Mazus. There’s more to what she said, but I need to probe delicately.

When the setting sun makes the light dance across the table in a soft glow, we both simultaneously decide to leave at the same time, turning to one another and speaking over one another.

“We should—” Genevieve says.

“Well, it’s getting late,” I say.

She giggles loudly while I let out a soft chuckle, then we stand there awkwardly, unsure what to say. The moment stretches with tension, though it’s not unpleasant. A million possibilities expand before us as we stare at one another, a question hovering in the space between us, though I’m not sure what it is. Is she—Could she be—