“You didn’t finish saying it.”
“Thanks to your excellent dragging skills.”
“They are among my finest.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her arms rested lightly around him.
“I forget sometimes,” she said. “At Ashcombe, I mean. Everyone there already knows I’m strange.”
“That does not make you safe.”
“I know.”
The road dipped toward a ford where rainwater had swollen the stream. Cygnet picked her way carefully, hooves splashing through the shallows. Amelia tightened her arms around him when the mare shifted beneath them.
Thomas set one hand briefly over hers. Only to steady her. The lie had grown so thin he could see light through it.
“I forget too,” he said.
She made a small sound near his shoulder. “You?”
“Aye.”
“That I’m strange?”
“That others will see it.”
A rook flew from the hedge, black wings hard against the pale sky.
He should have left it there. That was enough. More than enough. The moment in the market had already loosened too many stones.
Instead, because he was a greater fool than any man living, Thomas added, “At Ashcombe, you belong.”
Her breath changed.
He heard it. Felt it in the slight tightening of her arms.
“You said that like it was bad,” she said.
“It is dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous here. Water is dangerous. Roofs are dangerous. Geese are dangerous. Hob’s French is probably fatal in three counties.”
Despite himself, he laughed.
She went utterly rigid behind him.
“What?” he asked.
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“The road jolted me.”
“The road told a joke?”
