“Indeed,” Henry said smoothly as he removed a pile of books and something that looked like an inside-out clock from a chair. “If you would care to wait for him here, I’ll have him out to you shortly.”

“Thank you.” Alva sat gingerly, realized there was something poking her, delicately removed a slide rule that had become wedged between the seat cushion and the chair back, and prepared to wait.

A few seconds later, she heard voices through the wall.

“The problem is once the fuse wire has been extinguished, the candle can’t be relit.”

“Sam—”

“Yes, of course you’re right; it’s not practical. We’ll have to figure out a way to preserve the partially burnt ones, maybe a spare fuse or something.…”

“Sam—”

“Or not a fuse, but something that could serve as a fuse.…”

“Alva Webster’s here.”

There was a pause. Alva noted she should not be eavesdropping and shrugged. There was absolutely no chance she was going to stop.

“She is?” Sam said. “She’s here? You saw her?”

“I even did more than see her,” Henry replied. “I spoke to her. She’s in the sitting room.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so!”

“I did. And you can’t go out there in shirtsleeves. Where’s your coat?”

Another long silence, during which Alva struggled with a reluctant smile.

“Did you put one on this morning?”

She was surprised by a giggle and clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent further slips. The man was ridiculous.

“I think so,” Sam said. There were some rustling noises, and then—“Ah! There it is.”

She heard him walk out of the room, and soon he was in front of her. “Alva,” he said, grinning. “You came back.”

Any impulse to laugh faded as she looked up at him. When she wasn’t around him she tended only to remember how he made her laugh, the funny, clever, nonsensical things he said. He became, if not safe, at least safer, in absence. She forgot—perhaps she made herself forget—the sheer power of his physical presence.

My god, he’s beautiful, she thought, a little sigh escaping her before she came back to herself. Her cheeks warmed a little in embarrassment. “Professor Moore, thank you for seeing me.”

“I wish you’d call me Sam,” he said, shoving some metal sheeting off a love seat and dragging it—she tried not to watch the play of his thigh muscles through his pants—across the room to face her.

“I’d be more comfortable with Professor Moore,” she said, and stopped, wondering if she was about to make a terrible mistake.

His grin faded as he watched her. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”