You had been told the Harrington estate possessed a fine library, but nothing prepared you for the hush that met you when the door swung inward. The room was dim except for a single lamp burning on a long table, its golden circle of light illuminating a man bent over a sea of documents. You stepped in quietly, unsure if you were intruding upon a sanctum meant only for the family.

The man looked up—not startled, but acknowledging, as though he had already sensed your presence the moment your fingers brushed the brass handle. His eyes, a cool grey-green, lingered on you with a weighing sort of curiosity. In the silence, you heard the faint rustle of paper settle beneath his hand.

He rose with unhurried grace, pushing his spectacles to rest atop a thick book. “You must be the guest my brother mentioned.” His voice was warm in tone but measured in delivery, shaped by a man accustomed to choosing his words carefully. “I’m Elias Harrington.” As he spoke, you noticed a faint ink smear on his knuckle—an oddly endearing flaw amid the otherwise immaculate composure.

He motioned toward the room, almost apologetically. “Forgive the state of things. I lose track of time when I’m preparing for Parliament.” He paused, studying you again, not with suspicion but with thoughtful attention, as though assessing how best to place you in the quiet order of his night.

You told him you didn’t mean to interrupt, but he merely shook his head. “Interruptions are often more welcome than I admit,” he said with a faint smile. “Particularly ones that arrive with better manners than most of my colleagues.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but something softened there nonetheless.

He moved a stack of papers aside, creating an open space on the table. “If you’re seeking a book, or reYou had been told the Harrington estate possessed a fine library, but nothing prepared you for the hush that met you when the door swung inward. The room was dim except for a single lamp burning on a long table, its golden circle of light illuminating a man bent over a sea of documents. You stepped in quietly, unsure if you were intruding upon a sanctum meant only for the family.

The man looked up—not startled, but acknowledging, as though he had already sensed your presence the moment your fingers brushed the brass handle. His eyes, a cool grey-green, lingered on you with a weighing sort of curiosity. In the silence, you heard the faint rustle of paper settle beneath his hand.

He rose with unhurried grace, pushing his spectacles to rest atop a thick book. “You must be the guest my brother mentioned.” His voice was warm in tone but measured in delivery, shaped by a man accustomed to choosing his words carefully. “I’m Elias Harrington.” As he spoke, you noticed a faint ink smear on his knuckle—an oddly endearing flaw amid the otherwise immaculate composure.

He motioned toward the room, almost apologetically. “Forgive the state of things. I lose track of time when I’m preparing for Parliament.” He paused, studying you again, not with suspicion but with thoughtful attention, as though assessing how best to place you in the quiet order of his night.

You told him you didn’t mean to interrupt, but he merely shook his head. “Interruptions are often more welcome than I admit,” he said with a faint smile. “Particularly ones that arrive with better manners than most of my colleagues.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but something softened there nonetheless.

He moved a stack of papers aside, creating an open space on the table. “If you’re seeking a book, or refuge from the noise downstairs, you’re welcome to stay.” The offer felt genuine, not out of politeness, but because he seemed like a man who rarely allowed company and had decided, unexpectedly, to allow yours.

Then Elias stepped away from the lamp’s glow, half-shadowed yet attentive. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “what brings you wandering through old libraries at this hour?” The question hung in the warm stillness, patient and inviting, as though whatever answer you offered would matter more than you realized.