“He’s not my type either,” Raisa said, then rushed to add, “I mean, I like him, and all that, but…I know it won’t work out in the long run.”

Talia raised her eyebrow in an “Oh, really?” kind of way. “I know you’re a blueblood, but it’s not like you have to marry him.”

Speaking of. It was nearly six. Time to meet the amazing Han Alister for tutoring.

“I have to go,” Raisa said.

“Say hello for me!” Talia winked at Raisa.

He was waiting for her in the upstairs room at The Turtle and Fish. He was always early, ever since that first class when he’d been late and she’d laid into him. (He was definitely teachable.) He’d taken to ordering dinner (he said as payment), so they’d gotten into the habit of eating together before or after their sessions. He claimed he needed to practice his table manners with actual food.

“What if I used the right fork, but used it to stuff sausage in my mouth, or guzzled down my ale like a soaker in his cups?” he said. “All your hard work would have gone to waste.”

Han worked hard himself. He did the assigned reading and participated without complaint in Raisa’s role-playing. His speech had improved dramatically over the past two months, though he still used thieves’ slang now and then because that didn’t result in fivepenny payments. His table manners were nearly flawless, when he paid attention.

There were times, though, that he seemed desperate for sleep, yawning after dinner and twice actually dozing off.

“Should you be spending time on this right now?” Raisa asked one evening when she could tell he was exhausted. “Like I said, you can learn manners on your own.”

“I apologize,” he said. “It’s not the company. If there’s anybody I want to be awake for, it’s you. I was up late last night is all.”

It seemed he was up late every night. Is he seeing someone? she wondered.

It’s not my business if he is.

It was clear he was used to having his way with girls, and in a dozen ways he let her know that he was interested in her. She’d feel the pressure of his eyes, and turn around to find him gazing at her as one might a complicated, layered painting. The intensity of his attention was seductive.

Sometimes he’d pull his chair around so they could share his book. He’d sit about an inch away, always maintaining that tiny distance, as if he knew exactly where she was at all times.

As he bent his head over Faulk, she’d find herself staring at the curve of his jaw with its pale bristle of beard, the jagged scar that narrowly missed his right eye, his muscular forearms corded with veins.