Page 146 of When Hearts Surrender

Missing you.

A sharp pain shoots through me, and images of Maxwell sobbing at the gardens flood my vision again, followed by me laughing, dancing with him in the rose garden I haven’t stepped foot in, and furtive whispers about Venice and Aristotle.

There’s so much happiness and sadness. But these are dreams. They aren’t real, right?

What’s happening to me?

My fingers tremble as I trace each carefully carved word, feeling and seeing the devastating heartbreak of the man behind this message who left a piece of his soul here.

It’s a surety I feel deep in my gut.

I open the locket around my neck and stare at the near identical words inscribed inside.

It can’t be…can it?

My pulse hammers in my veins and thunder rumbles in the skies, the wind picking up in speed and ferociousness, and wetness drops onto the wrought iron placard.

My tears.

Belatedly, I realize I’m crying for some unknown reason. Every atom inside me yearns to find Maxwell because he’ll be able to soothe the ache. He’ll be able to heal my heart.

My fingers trail over the writing one last time when suddenly—

A brick loosens from a leg of the bench.

My breath freezes, my hands shaking as I pull out the brick, and feel around the hollow inside until my fingers touch something solid.

Pulling it out, I stare at the nondescript brown package wrapped in twine, the size of a book, and lightning snakes across the skies.

Please tell me this is what I think it is.

I carefully pull loose the twine and unwrap the parchment, finding a brown leather book carefully preserved, the edges worn and pages yellowed.

A few loose leaves of paper are tucked inside, but I ignore them for now. Gingerly, I flip to the first page, finding an entry in immaculate masculine script.

January 2, 1860, Wraithmoor Abbey

I saw your smile today and I can’t fathom why you were happy given you were ironing dresses and jackets at five in the morning. I should have been asleep were it not for the restlessness I felt inside me when I woke up lonely in my bedroom at the crack of dawn.

The house was cold, the fire long extinguished in the fireplace. But your smile was arresting—a flame brightening the dark crevices inside my chest. For the first time, I felt warmth.

“Silas,” I whisper, my hand clutching the journal tightly. His missing journal, the one from the 1860s, the decade Maxwell suspected something happened that changed the duke from the hopeful man to the severe aristocrat with sorrowful eyes in the portraits.

He’s writing about her…his Emma. I’m sure of it.

I want to know what happened to them; to himandto her. I need to know. I can’t explain the desperation rushing through my veins.

I flip to the next page when a distant noise interrupts me.

Freezing, I look toward the stairwell, hearing the heavy pounding of shoes against the steps. Quickly, I wrap the journal back in its packagingand put it in its hiding place before replacing the brick. I don’t want anyone to discover this journal, not before I finish reading it.

I know there are answers in there for the riddle I’ve been trying to solve since I stepped foot into these halls and felt like I was coming home.

Smoothing out my gray wool dress, I hurry to the staircase to head off whoever is coming up here because I don’t want anyone to disturb this sacred shrine. Somehow, I know Silas wouldn’t want anyone here.

A familiar blond head of hair and startling green eyes greet me as I make a turn in the stairwell, a dozen steps away from the fourth-floor entrance in the east wing.

“Cole?” I whisper, a chill sweeping through me.

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