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He suspected the sparkle at the corner of her eyes was no longer humor, but threatening tears.

This. This belonged on his old list—one more reason being alone with Lenora was a very bad idea. He made her cry.

“Lenora,” he said gently, “why would you want to befriend someone who makes you cry?”

“I don’t know.” She sniffled. “I only know that, from the very first time I saw you, I wanted to know you better. I wanted to be your friend.”

Ah. His heart panged.

He recalled her as a dark-eyed, inquisitive waif asking a hesitant question in a sweet voice.

Seen from time’s safe distance, he understood that, yes, that little girl had wanted to be his friend.

“I remember,” he admitted.

She wiped at the corners of her eyes. “You remember meeting me?”

He nodded. “I was terrified of you.”

“But why?”

Because you saw straight through me.

Her brow furrowed. “I’m harmless.”

Harmless, she was not.

He snorted—a choked-back chuckle stemming from her belief she was benign. “You were an odd child.”

She thrust out a finger. “And you”—she poked—“were a sullen boy! But I don’t hold your sullenness then against you now!”

“Thank you?” he dipped his head contritely, rubbing his chest.

Briefly, her gaze dropped to his hand. Without thinking, he’d used his injured hand.

He slid his fingers straight into his pocket.

Though he kept the scars covered with a flesh-colored under glove, most people, including, of course, his wards, were aware he’d somehow mangled his little finger.

Still, Lenora had been the solitary person bold enough to ask. And after all these years, he still did not want her to know.

“Are you considering a friendship between us?” she asked.

“That depends,” he replied. “Assuming I agree, will you guarantee your participation in the Season, irrespective of the outcome?”

“Asquith,” she spoke as if disappointed. “I’ve already given you my word.”

“Then we are agreed.” He cleared his throat. “Friends.”

She sighed, but not in a normal fashion. She released her breath as if she hadn’t been able to exhale in hours. He understood. He’d felt as if he hadn’t taken a deep inhale since that night in the maze.

He held out his hand, intending to shake hers the same way he might shake hands with a horse- monger, once they’d agreed on a price. Instead, she lifted his injured hand from his pocket, kissed it, and held it against her cheek.

Strange sensations, part pain, part release, skittered up his arm.

He held himself back from turning that hand in her palm, cupping her neck, and drawing her to him. Briefly, he feared she, too, would demand more.

She did not.