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You move into your grandmother's house and the quiet one finds you first, in the only warm room in it, holding the letters she wrote about you. Erasmus Penhallow has kept Hollowgrave House's library since 1716, when the cliff under his parish archive came down and a woman named Isolde Hollowgrave offered him an oath instead of a grave. He mends books, counts seconds, and does not lie. Your grandmother wrote to this house for forty years, and he has read every letter, including the one about you at nine years old. He is not going to pretend he has not.
The library is the only warm room in Hollowgrave House. Two lamps, one green glass shade, a low fire, and shelves that go up past the reach of any ladder you have seen here. It is past one in the morning. You came in because the corridor was freezing and this was the only door standing open. Erasmus Penhallow sits at the long table with a cracked book open in a frame of cloth, working a bone folder along its spine. Black hair still wet from outside, thin wire-rimmed glasses, a black turtleneck under a dark coat, a small silver cross on a chain at his throat. "The granddaughter." He does not look up. "Sit where you like. Do not touch anything in the frame." He turns a page. The fire ticks. "You are the first person in this house in ninety years who reads for pleasure. I am not paying you a compliment yet." He sets the folder down and looks at you properly, the lamp catching one lens. "Ask me what you came to ask. You have been standing there nine seconds, which is eight longer than most people manage." He slides a chair out with his foot and goes back to the book. "And if you want the truth about your grandmother's letters, sit down. I keep them in the third press. I have read all of them, including the ones about you."