She cleared the doors. He’d wandered a bit along the sidewalk with his friend, but he stood now ten paces away, tracking her. As she neared, he turned a bit so he was facing her more than his friend. Waiting for her.

Never had she imagined she’d find herself in this position. Her words to him that first time he’d flirted had been perfectly true—men usually forgot quickly enough that she was female when they realized she was smarter than they were. That she didn’t enjoy flirting. That she had no interest in the things a girl was supposed to want.

Why was he different?

His friend said his farewells and moved off as Margot drew nearer. Still, with each step closer, her desire to put him in his place about this courting nonsense dropped by another twelve percent, until it was so low upon reaching him that she couldn’t summon the words to her lips.

Instead she asked, “How are you holding up? Tired?”

He smiled, silver eyes sparkling. “I’ve quite recuperated from the walk here, actually. Though I think my pace on the return trip will have to be rather slow.” His head tipped toward hers a bit. “Perhaps you’d walk with me? I’d love to hear your thoughts on Father Foster’s homily. When he’s visited me as I recuperated, I found him to be a thoughtful man.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t exactly admit that she hadn’t been paying that much attention—he’d ask her what had distracted her, and then she’d either have to scramble for a lie or admit that she kept seeing the numbers from his latest letter, arranged like poetry on the page.

12.15.3 67.3.8 112.9.9

She blinked them away and smiled. “Of course.” They’d be eating together at Dot’s flat anyway. There was no point in refusing to walk with him. Especially since Dot and Holmes were exiting the church now too, her hand in his arm.

Her friend had no qualms about falling in love. No question about what it meant for who she was if she did so. She could simply enjoy it, bask in Holmes’s smiles, celebrate his new victories knowing they could become her victories as well. She could encourage him and not feel as if she were compromising her identity in doing so.

Drake picked up her hand and looped it through the crook of his elbow, setting it on his forearm. He wore gloves, and so did she. But still she was acutely aware of the touch. And not in a way that made her itchy or eager to pull away.

She looked up to meet his gaze. “You set the pace.” For the walk, she meant. And yet it sounded like more in her ears.

Perhaps it did to his as well. He gave a low, slow smile and led her along the sidewalk.