“About Cordelia?” He lowered his hand, recalling Brocelind Forest, the light filtering down through the green leaves, the way he and Grace had rested in the grass and told each other everything. “I do not think I know that much about her,” he said, realizing with an odd pang that it was true. He supposed he could tell Grace that Cordelia had asked him to help her find an eligible man, but for some reason, he did not want to. “She and her family have always been reticent. Lucie knows her much better than I do. I do remember a time.…”

“What is it?” Grace had come close to him. He could smell her perfume as she looked up at him: it was always the same scent of violets. “What do you remember?”

“Lucie fell from the side of a cliff once,” he said slowly. It was an oddly dim memory. There had been a field of daisies—Cordelia had been very brave—it was how she had gotten her nickname. Daisy. “In France. Cordelia was with her. It would have been a bad fall, but Cordelia caught her wrist and held on to her for hours until we found them. I’ll always be grateful to her for saving my sister.”

It seemed to James that Grace relaxed slightly, though he could not have guessed why. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you with your friend,” she said. “It’s just been so long since we’ve been alone.”

A strange pang of something like unease went through James. “You had wanted to meet Matthew and Christopher and Thomas,” he said. “I could take you.…”

She shook her head, and he was struck as always by her beauty. It was cold and perfect—no, she was not cold, he reminded himself. She held herself tightly closed, for she had been hurt badly by the loss of her parents, by Tatiana’s whims and cruelty. But that was not the same as coldness. There was color in her cheeks now, and her eyes glittered fiercely.

“I want you to kiss me,” she said.

He never thought of saying no.

The sun was bright as he reached for her, so bright it hurt his eyes. He drew her toward him: she was small and cool and slight, delicate as a bird. Her hat slipped from her head as she tilted her face up toward his. He felt the rustle of lace against his hands as they circled her waist, and the cool, soft press of her lips against his.

The sun was a burning needle transfixing them both to the spot. Her chest rose and fell against his; she was trembling as if she were cold. Her hands gripped his shoulders. For a moment, he only felt: their lips against each other’s, the taste of her like sugar pastilles on his tongue.