He could not remember a time he had not known her. Their mothers were best friends and had planned, since the children were born, to marry them off at a suitable time. That had been common knowledge between them and among their friends, but Nolan could still recall the afternoon, fifteen years ago, when the formal announcement was made. Their parents had held a joint lawn party, overflowing with expensive meats and rich pastries and an extraordinary assortment of wines; there must have been two hundred people in attendance. He and Leesa and their parents had stood in a small circle at the head of the salad table while Leesa’s mother told the assembled aristocracy how her daughter and Margo Adelpho’s son had been promised to each other in marriage. Everyone had clapped madly, and Nolan had been ready to die.

He had been a thin and awkward youth, sensitive and shy; the concept of marriage to anyone, particularly someone like Leesa, made him almost painfully sick. Leesa, at sixteen, had been lovely, with that sculpted blue face, fine flyaway hair, and legs so long she could never find trousers to fit, so she always wore filmy, floating skirts which gave her even more grace and motion. It was impossible to imagine touching such a goddess, let alone engaging in any intimacy with her. He was not of her sphere.

But Leesa at sixteen had also been kindhearted, unaffected, and eager to please, and she had, after all, known him her whole life. She found a minute, in the press of all those people and their waterfall of congratulations, to seek Nolan out where he had hidden himself behind the serving tent. The instant he had seen her, he had dropped his china plate and spilled his wine, and his face, his whole body, had reddened with mortification.

“Leesa—you—that is—isn’t there someone your mother wants to introduce you to?” were the only stammered words he could think to utter.

But she had laughed, and come close enough to squeeze his arm, and bent to retrieve his dishes. “I know. It seems pretty awful now,” she said in the most sympathetic of voices. “But I think you’ll be happier about it in a couple of years.”

“No, I—of course I’m happy,” he had said, stuttering again, but she had burst out laughing and kissed him suddenly on the cheek.

“Don’t even think about it,” she advised. “We’ll just be friends like we’ve always been friends. You’ll see. It won’t be so terrible.”