“Then you lot arrived, a bunch of boys from famous families, too well brought up to understand at first what went on far from home. Expecting the world would embrace you. That you would be treated well. As I never had been.” Alastair pushed back a lock of hair with a shaking hand. “I suppose I hated you because you were happy. Because you had each other—friends you could like and admire—and I had nothing like that. You had parents who loved each other. But none of that excuses the way I behaved. And I do not expect to be forgiven.”

“I’ve been trying to hate you,” Thomas said quietly, “for what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”

Alastair’s dark eyes glittered. “It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your parents, too. You know it. So you don’t have to—to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.”

“No,” Thomas said.

Alastair blinked. His whole body seemed tensed, as if he were awaiting a blow, and part of Thomas wanted to deliver it—to say, Yes, Alastair, I despise you. You will never be anything but worthless.

But throughout the conversation, something had been building inside Thomas, having nothing to do with Alastair’s behavior at school and everything to do with events that had come later. All of Thomas’s instincts bade him to stay silent, to push these emotions back in the recesses of his being as he always did. But they had spoken more truthfully to each other in the last few minutes than they had in their entire lives, and Thomas suspected that if he did not say the rest now, he never would.

“The reason I cannot hate you is because—because of those days we spent in Paris together,” he said, and saw Alastair’s eyes widen. “You were kind to me when I was very alone, and I am grateful. It was the first time I realized you could be kind.”

Alastair stared at him. Why had Alastair ever dyed his hair? The contrast of his dark eyes and hair with his brown skin was beautiful in the candlelight. “It is my favorite memory of Paris as well.”

“You don’t have to say that. I know you were there with Charles.”

Alastair stiffened. “Charles Fairchild? What about him?”

So Alastair really was going to make him say it. “Wouldn’t that be your best memory of Paris?”

Alastair’s jaw was rigid. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”