My godmother led me from the nave through a small door, down two flights of stairs and into a room smelling faintly of dust and incense. Candles came to life in their sconces as she circled the room. “We need to talk. Still, best to keep in the light.” She ushered me to a table in the corner, and I sat heavily. “Now, to begin at the beginning. I heard what happened tonight, and I find Peter’s turning you down more than a bit odd.”

I gave a sad little laugh. “And why is that? My being rejected by one of the most popular boys in Potomac isn’t all that surprising.”

“No fishing, and no self-pity.” Godmother Althea’s mouth curved in a knowing not-quite smile. “I know you worship the ground he walks on, and Peter’s a good boy. But, Selah, he’s just a boy.”

“He’s different. Special,” I said hotly. “Peter’s good and handsome and wonderful.” I grimaced, feeling the words like salt in a cut.

“You’re a little biased, baby. He’s a cute kid, sure. Comes to confession twice a week and waited on his mother hand and foot when she got sick last winter.” She tipped her head at me. “But Peter’s not out of your reach.”

I swallowed hard; I remembered how he’d taken care of his mother. When I’d spotted Peter here at Saint Christopher’s near a bank of candles one day, I’d recognized him instantly, gone to his side.

“What’s all that for?” I’d blurted, nodding at the basket at his feet. It was crammed with a pot of soup, sharp-smelling poultices, and sachets of tea. Peter had opened his eyes slowly, wearily, wilting me. “Sorry,” I’d cringed. “You’re here to pray. Of course. I—I’ll talk to you later.”

But Peter had smiled. “No, it’s all right,” he’d said, a little tired, glancing down at the basket. “My mother’s sick.”

“I’m sorry.” I’d bitten my lip, smiling up at him a little ruefully. “But tea and prayers sound like a fail-safe cure.”

“It’s been days.” Peter had sighed, passing a hand over his dark curls. “Dad and I just stare at each other at dinner. Move around each other all day. Neither of us knows what to talk about without her. I just want her better.”

I’d frowned, grasping for the right thing to say—for the perfect thoughtful remark that would make Peter feel better and stay with him till later. But with no warning, his brown eyes had widened in horror. “Oh, Selah. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

I’d blinked, confused. Then—oh.

Sorry about Momma, he’d meant. About Daddy and me and our loss. Sorry for complaining about a few days without his mother when I’d been missing mine for the better part of a decade.