Even James understood that he was rambling a bit. Grace only nodded.

The next day James woke late, to find his parents already out and his sister perched on one of the overstuffed armchairs in the parlor, scribbling furiously into a notebook.

“Do you want to do something?” he asked Lucie.

Without looking up, she said, “I am doing something. I’m writing.”

“What are you writing about?”

“Well, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll write about you.”

So, with nothing else to do, he walked to Blackthorn Manor.

The manor looked, to his eyes, identical to how it had appeared the first time he’d gone there a year ago, to cut the briars from the gates. The house itself was closed and silent, like a giant bat curled into itself to sleep through the day, until the darkness gave it leave to unfurl its wings again. If anything, the briars were longer than they had been when he first began his work last year, the thorns more numerous, longer and sharper. The first half of the motto above the gates was obscured, and all that could be read now was LEX NULLA.

He walked the perimeter, around the stone wall, through the uncut underbrush. He felt silly. He hadn’t brought a book or a sword or anything to do. When he came again to the front gates, though, Grace was waiting behind them.

“I could see you through my bedroom window,” Grace said, without preamble. “You looked lost.”

“Good morning,” James said, and Grace smiled at his manners. “Do you think your mother would want me to trim the briars up again?”

An awkward silence fell. Then Grace said, “I cannot imagine that my mother would mind if the vines were to be cleaned up. If I fetched you shears, and you cut them back from the gates, I would keep you company.”

“That seems a fine bargain,” said James with a grin.

“I cannot promise to make enough idle conversation to fill the time, of course,” Grace added. “I could read to you, if you like.”

“No! No, thank you,” he said quickly. Grace looked surprised, so James added, “I would rather hear about your life.”

“My life is this house,” she said.

“Then,” he said, “tell me about the house.”

So she did. James never told his parents where he was going. He would simply leave the house in the afternoon, trim the vines and overgrowth outside the walls of the manor, and talk with Grace for two hours or so, before growing tired and thirsty, begging Grace’s pardon, and sauntering home.