“I doubt it.” I glanced up at the empty windows surrounding us. “But nobody’s ever kicked me out.” And I’ve never brought anyone else here. Just you.

“How did you find it?” He sat cross-legged on the center of the spiral of courtyard tiles.

“I was lost. Which is probably how most people find things.” I sat next to him, silence settling around us like a tent. “I was out with my mom and dad getting lunch. I’m . . . not sure what happened.” They were arguing. They forgot me. “They were hailing a taxi one minute and the next I was alone.”

Oscar let his wrist rest against mine. “When was this?”

“I don’t remember. I was eight, maybe?” Five. “Anyway, some delivery guy with a cart—he was probably nice, I was just freaked out—he tried to stop me so he could call my parents, and my stranger-danger alarm went off and I started running and ducked in here to hide. And the sound thing . . .”

I beamed slowly, peering up and all around.

“I had this The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe pop-up book and . . . I literally thought I’d slipped into another world. I was so happy. It made sense, why I felt the way I did in that other world. Out there.” I motioned to the street. “Anyway, it started getting dark, and I came out and all the noise hit me again and a cop found me and . . . I guess half the city had been looking. So that was something. And my mom made me hot chocolate and we sang together.”

Oscar smiled.

“It was winter,” I added. “Forgot to mention that.”

His knuckles had been idly dancing against mine. They stopped.

“How winter?”

“January winter.”

“You could have frozen.”

“It was cold. I remember that. But so was Narnia, right?”

Oscar turned and started rubbing my hands.

I laughed. “What are you—?”

“Warming you up.” He breathed onto our balled fingers. “You poor Dickensian urchin.”

“It’s July!” I swatted him away, feeling seven kinds of hot. “And if I were in Dickens, I’d be someone awful. Estella Havisham.”

“Wow, now that you mention it.” He tucked his hands back into his lap, scrutinizing me with a grin.

I slo-mo punched his shoulder. “Only I can make that joke.”

“Exactly what Estella would say. You’re not helping your case.”

“So.” I leaned in and away, a subject change. “Did you want to talk about something specific? I’m the one blathering on—”

“Yes.” Oscar’s shoulders shrunk in. “I mean, yes, I do, not yes, you’ve been blathering on. Now I’m blathering. This is how blathering, I think, is defined . . .”

I smiled, waiting as his face relaxed.

“Talking.” He drew a breath. “Okay. Here goes. I like you. As evidenced by the four hundred times I’ve told you I like you. Among other things.”