Maggie had been little then, just a girl, but she’d been furious they were getting to do something she wasn’t, even after they had all explained the gloves were too big for her small hands. The tantrum had continued until Henry, all of fourteen himself, had figured out how to make half-size versions, cutting and sewing the leather himself. They’d looked awful, but she loved them. Naturally, she’d rewarded Henry by pounding on him every chance she got.

Sam squared off against Henry and put his hands up. They started circling, throwing out the occasional testing jab.

“So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took a swing; Henry ducked and pranced backwards. This was how they fought—Sam was strong and Henry was fast.

“Uh-huh.” A quick jab, Sam wove fast so it glanced off his cheek.

“Shut up and fight,” Sam said, and this time when he swung he connected, pushing Henry back two steps.

Sam danced away instead of pressing his advantage, suddenly wanting to draw the fight out. Henry came back swinging, and for a few glorious moments the only things that mattered were absorbing Henry’s hits and dealing out his own. Snow flew as they fought, landing icily in Sam’s boots and dripping down his ankles, but the cold air was sharp and thrilling in his lungs, and he liked the way the snow muffled noise, so the only sounds he heard were their breaths and the thud of fists hitting flesh.

After a while, the fight degraded, as it always did. Henry used a left feint/right hook combination, giving Sam what would surely turn into a beautiful shiner the next day. Sam responded with a fierce undercut, knocking the smaller man over. Henry, who, though neatly buttoned-up in life, was rather wild in a fight, responded by throwing the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules out the proverbial window and kicking Sam’s legs out from beneath him. What followed was not a perfect exhibition of boxing style, being instead a fairly exact rendition of two ten-year-old boys fighting in a schoolyard. Finally, after an unfortunate bit of hair pulling (again, Henry, for whom the Marquess’s rules had always been more limiting than inspirational), Sam maneuvered Henry into a headlock, pulling ruthlessly until Henry called truce.

They collapsed into the snow side by side, panting.

“You’re a vicious little bastard,” Sam said, rubbing his scalp.

“Yes,” Henry wheezed. “I’ll apologize as soon as air is traveling through my esophagus again.”

They lay there a while longer. Sam could feel the snow melting through his shirt. He could think again, he realized.

“You spent the night with her,” Henry said.

There was a long silence while Sam looked up at the gray clouds, far above him. “I’m in love with her.”

“Ah.” Henry’s voice was gentle. “And she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Worse,” he said. “I think she might, if she could let herself.”