“That’s if I never eat, and I live in a barrel under the Fabrician Bridge. I won’t let you wait.”

“I’ll do what I want.”

Helena Justina rubbed her hand over her eyes and as her temper rasped I realized she was as tired as me. I held out one hand; at last she came. She perched alongside; I laid my arm behind her to shield her from the roughness of the wall. She sat stiffly, leaning a little away from me. I tugged back the mantle she wore over her head, and when I stroked the warm softness of her hair suddenly she closed her eyes. I knew now that meant yearning, not distaste.

Tucking in a loose strand that belonged folded back above her ear, I told her quietly how I had always liked the way she twisted up her hair.

“While I was waiting,” Helena reported frostily, pretending to ignore that, “I saw off three chits in indecent frocks who had heard you might be rich—” I reached for her hand; she was wearing my ring. I expected that. Though not to feel it on the third finger of her left hand. “Your mother came.” The reassuring clasp of her fingers answered mine. “She thought someone should stay; she warned me that you would troop in eventually, cold and tired and drunk and miserable as Cerberus. She thinks you’ll come to no good.”

“She thinks I need a good woman.”

“What do you think?”

“If I found one, I’d disappoint her.”

“You might disappoint each other. Or—”

“Or,” I agreed carefully, “we might not! My darling, that isn’t the point.”

After a moment Helena began again.

“You once said, if you loved me it would be a tragedy. But what if I love you?”

“I’ll forgive you, if you can forgive yourself.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I stopped her, laying one finger gently against her lips. “Don’t. I can’t bear that. You’ve seen how I live. I could never bring you here. You know what my prospects are—virtually nil. I can’t insult you with promises. Better accept how things are. Better say nothing, lady. Better run while you can—”

“It’s too late.” Helena Justina repeated my previous words bleakly.

I released her and covered my face.

The moment passed.

A huge moth plunged into my lamp. He lay on the table, not even singed though stunned. He was two inches long and shaped like a catapult bolt, with strong mottled brown wings, folded close. He looked as dazed as I felt.

I stood up, lifting him delicately in the hem of my tunic; you can be a brave man but not enjoy the struggles of a live moth in your naked hand. Helena put out the lamp.