“I suppose,” says Weed. “But at least they were all legally wed.” He rolls over then and asks me quite bluntly, “Will you marry someday, Jessamine?”

“Of course,” I blurt, suddenly flustered. “Or—I don’t know. I suppose I will, but one must first—that is to say, a suitable person would have to propose to me, and I would have to accept, and my father would have to approve, also.” Does he not even remember how we kissed? I think, bewildered. Surely it is not my place to remind him!

“What is suitable?” he asks, all innocence.

“Weed, your questions are so bold today!” I make myself sound cross to conceal how confused I feel. “A suitable person would be someone whom I cared for, who cared for me, and was kind and understanding and able to make a good home with me.”

“Was I wrong to kiss you if I am not suitable, then?”

His words have the impact of a blow. “You were certainly wrong to kiss me,” I exclaim, “if you meant nothing by it!”

“Jessamine! I am sorry. Please—don’t cry!”

But it is too late; my feelings spill out in a rain of tears. “What does that mean, that you are not suitable?” I gasp out between sobs. “Do you not care for me at all, then?”

“Of course I care for you!” he exclaims. Even through my own tears I can see there is real pain in his eyes, and surprise as well. “And do you care for me also?”

“Yes,” I confess. “Yes, I do.”

But I cannot speak more, because he kisses me again, differently this time—this kiss is no tender question, but the luxurious, entitled kiss of one who now knows his feelings are returned. The sweet taste of seedcakes and cider mingles on our lips. My quickening heart fills my ears with a rushing sound, like the wind in the grass, like the sea.

After what seems a blissful aeon, he pulls away and gazes upon me. His look is so full of innocence, like a wild thing—utterly guileless and full of mystery at the same time.

“Weed,” I say, now smiling through my tears. “You are really not like anyone else I have ever met.”

“I know,” he says darkly. “I know.”

The next morning brings a fresh surprise: Father needs us to run an errand in Alnwick—not just in the town, but at the castle itself. I am excited, as I have only been inside the castle gates a few times in my life.

Weed is unimpressed by all that but is content to escort me on the journey. I briefly wonder if Father had considered sending Weed alone, but perhaps Father does not fully trust Weed with his precious medicines just yet—for that is our errand, to deliver a packet of fever remedy to one of the duke’s servants.