Janet Harte Library Novels & Stories

one of Janet’s friends murmured. “They’ve known each other forever,” another added, shooting me a pitying smile. Gianna Hartley — Hartley heiress, family friend since birth, and my husband’s ever-present shadow — was across the room, her laughter bright enough to cut through the chatter. She wore a silk gown the color of red wine, leaning just slightly into Stephen’s side as if by instinct. It had been like this for half the night. Glances. Whispers. One guest had even murmured, “Such a shame they never ended up together,” with me standing right there.

Kathrena asked, and we fell into step, all three of us, as we turned off the main street and onto one of the smaller, cobbled lanes that rounded towards the Hawthorn Central Library. “Let’s speak to Herb first. I’ll tell you when we’re settled inside.” The library was quiet as we filed in, and dust rose thick in the air, motes spinning through the slanted, grey light. There was an aura of ancient eyes watching us, today: something mystical, something magical, and it was curious, too.

in a downpour, the grey skies mirroring the gravity of the task. The briefing was held in a windowless, secure conference room in the Hart Senate Office Building. The air was cool, sterile, and smelled of old coffee and ambition. Janet Wexler, a woman with a sharp bob and even sharper eyes, presided. Three other staffers, along with a stenographer, sat around the table.

Today, he’d upped the stakes. Mid-morning, an email: Subject: Research Session – Main Library, 2:00 p.m.** Miss Harper, Meet me on the sixth floor, east stacks, section PR4600–PR4699; Victorian novels. Come prepared to work. Wear a black skirt. No panties. —L. Vale Her stomach flipped as she read it in the graduate lounge. No panties. In the library. She should refuse. This was beyond risky—campus security cameras, other students, professors who knew them both.