"You laughed." She narrowed her eyes at him. "That was a laugh. Yes, I've taken stock of the situation and I had decided to declare that a laugh."

Teasing. He knew it when he heard it. He did have all those siblings after all. But no one had teased him for years. They spoke so gently, so carefully, so earnestly, their words kind and their voices filled with compassion — and pain and need and loss until the weight of it closed his throat and silenced his voice.

Tonight he had not been a disappointment. He had not let anyone down. He had driven Mrs. Oakes and had helped set a little boy's leg so that the child would heal strong and active and fast on his feet. He had seen gratitude in the eyes of people around him and approval in Mrs. Oakes's peaceful cloudy sky eyes.

"You were —" I need a word. Think. What is the right word for Gemma Oakes? "Splendid."

He felt her jolt of surprise and he was aware that she'd turned her head to look at him again. This time he kept his gaze on Bad Pony's fuzzy flanks and the road ahead. When she let out a soft sigh, he felt it cross his cheek like a benediction.

"Thank you. That was a very nice thing to say to me, Mr. Worthington."

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her about the way that they had all looked at her. She hadn't seemed to notice it or to understand what she had done. A broken child would now grow straight and strong. She had changed lives tonight.

"You take care … of your people."

He looked at her shyly. She shook her head slightly and looked down at her hands. "I am not a lady. I'm merely the daughter of a librarian. The doctor married a bit below his station, I fear. I never quite understood why. But I try my best."

"You are their lady."

"I am no better than anyone in this dale."

Lysander's thoughts tripped on their own feet and tangled themselves on the ground. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong. And he wanted to tell her that she was right. Concepts of class and responsibility and labels and preconceptions, those were complicated things that required complicated words.

His uncooperative tongue frustrated him. For the first time he found himself longing to speak to someone. He wanted to tell her things.

When he'd read the sonnets tonight, he had given himself over to recitation of words he had heard all his life. The words had flowed from his tongue as if it had belonged to a different man.