He pushed the folders away in all too familiar frustration.   Maybe the book the owl had dropped off that morning would offer a hint.  He knew from experience he just needed one thread to grab on to and his brain would unravel the whole knot.  The trick was finding the right thread, and so far he hadn't.   A step to the door, a finger on the dried flower still propped in its vase, a click of the latch, and he was out of his room and walking toward her.   He'd had enough to drink that the way the light caught her curls seemed to hit a thousand highlights.  Who knew there were so many shades of brown? 