Lysander was as fond of Orion as any of his siblings, except for Attie, whom everyone favored and no one resented. He had been closer to Orion in childhood than to Cas and Poll, who had always paired up naturally.

He considered Poll for a moment. His brother looked strained. For the first time in a long time, Lysander had enough silence and space in his own mind to contemplate Pol's unenviable position.

"Do you love Miranda?"

Poll flinched. "God, you don't come back by halves, do you? Six words out of you in six years and now you go for the crippling blow right off the bell?"

Lysander waited. One thing silence had taught him was that people tended to fill it for you if you didn't. Poll looked away, took another swig, hiding behind the protection of his tankard. After a moment he gave a sigh and shrugged. "No. Yes. Sometimes."

Sometimes?

Lysander nodded, not because he agreed but because he understood something new about Poll and about himself. If he had to answer the same question about Gemma, the reply would be a short, definitive "yes."

Poll had had a confusing near–miss encounter with love. It was enough to awaken his formerly feckless heart to the promise of an entirely different rhythm of beating, yet not enough for him to rip it out, cage it, and pass it willingly, eagerly into the hands of another.

Gemma now danced with Cabot. They made a stunning pair and the room grew quieter as the village gaped at a level of grace and sophistication that Lysander would wager they had not seen for a long while, if ever.

Had not Edmund danced with his beautiful wife? Had he made her laugh until she gasped for air, or smile like a beacon when her dancing was greeted with stomping boots and whistling applause at the end?

But Lysander had no evidence of Edmund's treatment of Gemma either way, except for his cognizance of Gemma's painful dedication to her own dignity when he'd met her. She wore that dignified manner carefully, like a fragile crown she must not let fall. It had made her stiff and unapproachable. Lysander would bet Dade's very fine horse that it had been Edmund who had set that ill fitting crown on Gemma's young, girlish head.

Poll shifted to face out upon the crowd, no longer looking at Lysander. Neither said anything for a long few moments, but the lack of conversation felt comfortable enough. It occurred to Lysander that he felt no need to flinch from his brother or to run away from any questions and expectations Poll might have of him. He might be able to answer them if asked, or he might not, but it didn't seem as imperative to avoid them as it had in the past.

Lysander choose to think of that as a sign of improvement.

"So," Poll began, very obviously not looking at Lysander, "you seem better."