“Come outside for a minute,” she says lightly. Too lightly. “We’ll pull some herbs for the supper.”

“Some thyme would be lovely!” Sally shouts, but I hear it as time, and my heart starts thudding too fast again.

All these reminders. Three to go, any minute now.

Jo heads for the herb garden, glances about at the gate for onlookers, shuts it behind us, and leans against it, arms crossed.

“He told you he’s sweet on you, then. Matty.”

I blink, surprised. “How could you know that?”

“I had a feeling it would come out. Today is fraught, and he’s…” She snorts. “Even more transparently emotional than you are. How you missed it all these years, I’ll never know. Probably for the best, but I’m glad he got it off his chest now. He’s been carrying it around for far too long.”

“I mean.” I perch myself next to her along the gate. “I feel terrible.”

The fence gives a little under my weight. I edge away, picking splinters from my palms.

“Don’t pity the man, whatever you do. Pity’s the last thing he wants.” Jo sighs. “But maybe he’ll stop berating himself quite so much now. It was killing him, feeling like he was betraying Julia, betraying Hugh.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong. Not ever.”

“And he never will.”

Her eyes are sharp on mine. She needs me to know this. But people don’t speak this forcefully about things they’re convinced of. Maybe she thinks she’s saving me from myself.

“There are lines he will not cross. He’d have made a good grail knight in a prior life, let me tell you. Pure as a lily.”

I cannot help but laugh. “A lily. Matthew Clare.”

“How would you describe him?” She cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You’re not so different yourself, you know. You radiate innocence.”

“Oh God.”

Her grin stretches wider. “That sounded worse than I’d meant it.”

“Gormless.” My favorite British word.

“Not gormless. More butter wouldn’t melt. If you’re hearing anything in my voice, it’s envy. Most of us don’t make it to our late thirties with that ingénue glow still intact.”

“It’s all that moisturizer I stockpiled before the war.” I snort.

She swats me. “It’s more than that. You … What is it? You’re a careful sort of person. You tread lightly.”

She’s noticed, then. It is true in the most literal of senses—I look out for snails, even—and yet my stomach twists with shame. It hasn’t always been true, has it?

Killer.

“Not always.” I shoot her a playful glare, latching onto a subject change. “And now you’re punning.”

“Treadway. Drat.” Jo lifts her eyes heavenward. “I’m not, I promise—when have you known me to pun?!”

“Disappointingly rarely.”