The thought started to unravel in a dangerous direction. I remembered last night—how far we’d gone before pulling back with effort, our chaste good-night, returning to our separate rooms, neither of us sleeping at all. How he’d waited on the stoop this morning to tell me he was playing hooky today, there was no way he’d get anything productive done. And now, here we were, free to do . . . whatever we wanted.

Oscar was watching me. I reached for him. His hand slipped into mine so easily now, like we’d been meant to fit together all along.

“I love it here,” I said. “There are a handful of places in New York where you feel like you’re somewhere else completely.”

“Your courtyard,” Oscar said.

“Yeah, that’s one.”

“It sounds like you’re desperate to get out of the city.”

“Not exactly.” We glided through the walkways, footsteps echoing. “New York is magic. These places where the wall between worlds seems thin is part of it. It’s probably the same in Paris or London or . . . anywhere with actual history, but still. I like it here.”

“I do too.” I wasn’t sure whether Oscar meant New York or the Cloisters or right here with me, but the glint in his eye told me he meant it as a compliment. He nudged my shoulder. “New York’s got history.”

“I mean, yeah, for America—”

He motioned grandly. “The great Ruby Anna Chertok was born here.”

“Hmmm, a common fallacy. The correct answer is Charleston, South Carolina.”

He stopped mid-skip. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, my grandparents live there—well, near there, on Wadmalaw Island. My mom was visiting and . . . whoops! Six weeks early. I spent the first four months of my life there. Mom stayed a while so her stepmom could help take care of me.” I felt a wave of sadness chased with guilt, missing Grandma Jean way more than Mom. “Win teases me about it. Calls me a Southern belle.”

“I’m a pseudo-Southerner too,” Oscar said. “No wonder I like you so much.”

He curled a finger around one of the belt loops of my shorts and gave a tug.

Would it be acceptable to make out in the middle of a model monastery?

“They have the unicorn tapestries here.” I motioned to the stairs with a smile. “If you want to see them.”

“I want to see them.” Oscar laced his fingers into mine.

As we walked up the stairs, a tourist with a tight red perm started down, her broad husband trudging behind her. Her eyes flew right to Oscar and me and widened. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it.

I turned my head casually away. But then she veered to us—impact in three, two . . .

“I’m sorry, but I have to say it,” she launched in, staring daggers at Oscar—at our hands, locked together.