“Come on!” he said, pulling her towards the door. “We have to hurry. There’s a whole city out there we need to see!”

“My hair’s a mess,” she said, laughing as he pushed her into the hallway and closed the door behind them.

“We don’t have time for hair-related quibbles,” he said, pretending impatience. “You must simply learn to transcend these narrow, societally imposed standards of beauty.”

“Ah, as you have,” she said as they hurried down the stairs.

“Precisely.”

He strode through the lobby without letting go of her hand, conscious of nothing but the thrill of her skin touching his and the glistening headiness of the moment. When they reached the double doors, pushing them open together, the sharp winter air filled his lungs. He took a deep breath, reveling in the feeling of health and rightness that pervaded him, and kissed her. It was getting to be a habit, this kissing Alva business. The little worry flickered in and out.

The restaurant was only a few blocks away, but in a far less fashionable and far more comfortable part of town. It was squashed cozily between a cobbler and a bakery, no more than ten feet wide, its lights spilling merrily onto the sidewalk. Judging by the full tables at the windows, dinner was already in full swing, and they could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as they approached.

Inside was warm and loud and very busy, which was especially wonderful because it meant Alva had to stand very close to him. He put an arm around her waist and snugged her even closer.

“Professor!” Mrs. Russo had spied him from across the restaurant and was making her way with expert haste through the crowd. She was a plump, dark-haired woman, well into her sixties and quite handsome. “You have returned to us.”

“I’ve been out of town,” he said, kissing the hand she held out to him. “Mrs. Russo, this is Mrs. Alva Webster.”

If Mrs. Russo recognized the name, she gave no sign of it, simply smiling at Alva and shaking her hand. “Welcome, welcome. You shall follow me, and we shall give you a magnificent meal.”

“She will, too,” Sam said in Alva’s ear as they weaved through the tables behind Mrs. Russo.

“I imagine that woman can do anything she says she can,” Alva whispered back as they arrived at a small corner table occupied by two darkly handsome youths. Mrs. Russo burst forth in Italian, and after significant finger-pointing and back-and-forth the two young men shoved away from the table and slouched towards the kitchens.

“Two of my grandsons,” Mrs. Russo explained. “I’ve sent them to work in the kitchens, where they will pretend to work and flirt with the girl doing dishes. Youth.” While she spoke, she cleared the table of the unfortunate grandsons’ half-eaten plates of food. “There, sit and enjoy.”