Chapter 2: THE LANGUAGE OF THE SKIN

The silence Santiago left in his wake was a living thing. It pressed in on Elara, thick and heavy as the velvet drapes covering one of the library’s arched windows. Her skin still hummed from the accidental brush of his arm, the memory of his amber gaze feeling like a brand.

This is unprofessional, she chided herself, straightening her spine. You are here to work.

She approached the massive desk at the room's center, a ship's captain taking the helm of a sea of paper. She ran a finger through the fine layer of dust on its dark, scarred wood. This was her domain now. This beautiful, neglected chaos.

Her first task was to create order. She unpacked her kit: white cotton gloves, a soft-bristled brush, her laptop, and a pristine notebook. She started with the books on the desk itself. Most were ledgers—records of olive oil production, harvest yields from a century ago. Dry, historical, safe.

Then, her fingers closed around a smaller volume, bound not in leather but in faded silk, embroidered with patterns that had once been threads of gold. It was hidden beneath a stack of agricultural reports. Her breath hitched. This was different.

She carefully opened it. The script was elegant, flowing, and unmistakably feminine. It was not the journal she sought—this was French, a personal diary from the late 1800s. The name on the inside cover read Isabelle de León.

Elara’s French was passable. She gently turned a page, her gloved finger tracing the words.

“...this Andalusian heat does not simply warm the skin; it melts the very will. Alejandro’s grandfather, the Don, watches me with a fire in his eyes that mirrors the sun on the terraces. Today, by the fountain, his hand ‘accidentally’ met mine as I reached for a fallen orange. The shock of it, the simple touch of his work-roughened skin against my wrist, sent a current through me so violent I thought I might faint. I did not pull away. He did not let go. The air between us was thick with the scent of citrus and something unspoken, something desperate…”

Elara’s throat went dry. She could almost feel the sun, see the glint of water from the fountain, feel the terrifying thrill of that forbidden touch. She snapped the diary shut, her heart hammering. This was not just cataloging; it was voyeurism. It felt intrusive and utterly captivating.

The sound of a throat clearing made her jump.

Santiago stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a tray in his hands. He had changed into a clean, dark shirt, open at the collar. He had clearly showered; his damp hair curled slightly at his nape.

“I thought you might need sustenance,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. “My father forgets that his guests require earthly things like food and water.”

He placed the tray on a clear corner of the desk. On it was a glass of ruby-red wine, a small bowl of plump green olives, a wedge of hard cheese, and a slice of crusty bread. And a single, blood-red carnation.

“A peace offering,” he said, noting her startled expression. “For my… abruptness earlier. Welcome to La Casa del Azafrán.”

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice slightly hoarse. She pulled off her gloves, suddenly aware of her own dishevelment. “It’s… overwhelming. In the best possible way.”

His eyes fell on the silk-bound diary she had just closed. A knowing smile played on his lips. “Ah. You found Isabelle. The French wife of my great-great-grandfather. She found our Spanish ways… enlightening.”

Elara felt a blush creep up her neck. Had he known it was there? Had he led her to it?

“She writes very vividly,” Elara said, striving for academic detachment.

“She lived vividly,” Santiago countered, picking up an olive. His fingers were long and capable. “It is not a trait this family encourages in its women. Or its guests.” His gaze was a direct challenge. “We are meant to be stoic. To endure the sun, not to bask in it.”

He moved around the desk, standing close enough for her to catch his new scent: clean soap and the faint, sharp note of the wine. He looked down at the open ledger she had been ignoring.

“Olive yields. 1892. A dry year.” He sounded bored. Then his hand, warm and unmistakable, covered hers where it rested on the desk. Her pulse leapt against his palm. “This is not what you are here for, Inglesa.”

The foreign endearment, spoken in his rough accent, felt more intimate than a kiss.

“What am I here for?” she whispered, unable to look away from him.

“For the passion, not the paperwork,” he said, his thumb moving in an almost imperceptible caress over her knuckles. “For the story hidden behind the lists of numbers. Princess Zahra did not write her verses on ledger paper. She wrote on the finest parchment, in ink scented with jasmine. She wrote of the body, of the night, of the ache of wanting.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. “The journal is here. But this house does not give up its secrets to those who only look with their eyes. You must feel for them. Listen for them in the silence.”

He released her hand, and the absence of his touch felt like a cold draft. He picked up the wine glass and offered it to her.

“Taste it,” he commanded softly.

She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. She sipped. The wine was deep, rich, and complex.

 “What do you taste?” he asked.

 “Berries… oak… something earthy.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes holding hers captive. “No. You taste the sun on the grape skins. You taste the dry soil of this mountain. You taste the shadow of the leaf that sheltered it. That is how you find her. You don’t read the words. You taste them. You feel them on your skin.”

He turned and walked to the door, leaving her trembling, the glass of wine in her hand feeling like the most erotic object she had ever held.

“Dinner is at nine,” he said without looking back. “Don’t be late. My father dislikes tardiness almost as much as he dislikes talking about his feelings.”

And then he was gone, leaving Elara alone with the ghosts of passionate women and the devastating certainty that Santiago was the most dangerous and fascinating text in the entire library. The hunt was no longer academic. It had become deeply, terrifyingly personal.