She sagged into a chair. Suddenly she could hear the world around her—the tick of the clock on the mantel, the crack of the fire below it. It was snowing again, the light of her room reflected off the meandering flakes. And Sam was kneeling in front of her, concern etched in the lines of his face.

He was worried for her. This discovery was likely one of the most important of his entire career, and instead of celebrating he was here comforting her, because she was acting like a fool. She’d been acting like a fool—she hadn’t even realized what she’d been afraid of, until tonight. If she’d been less afraid, more honest with herself, two seconds of rational thought would have calmed her down.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her throat was dry. “I—I was taken aback.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “You were terrified,” he said. “And now you’re not anymore. Why?”

She looked away. She didn’t tell people about Alain. When she’d left him people had turned on her so quickly—no one would have believed her.

Sam would. Alva realized she didn’t question that at all. Which was why he of all people couldn’t be told.

She’d pretend—it was something she’d gotten good at, over the years. “You are talking about a ghost,” she said blandly. “I’m a delicately raised gentlewoman. I was actually supposed to faint just then.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “So the plan is still obfuscate, obfuscate, obfuscate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice mild. “And I guess when you’re ready to tell me, you will. But Alva—if you need help with something, come to me.”

She swallowed. His expression was so earnest—he was like a knight, pledging his troth. Good and pure, brilliant but in some ways strangely innocent. What she wouldn’t give to live, for a little while, in his sunshine.

Relief pumped through her, a gentle drug. Her muscles were warm and loose. Sam was watching her, a rueful smile tilting his lips.

He wasn’t angry with her. Frustrated, perhaps. He was still … he was still her friend.

He stood up, apparently deciding he’d gotten as much out of her as he was going to, and started lazily prowling around the room. The sheer size of him amongst her belongings was overwhelming. Alva supposed she should ask him to leave—or at least be embarrassed when he started poking around her vanity—but somehow all she felt was … fascination.

He uncapped the secret pot of rouge she used on the mornings when she was particularly wan. “What is this?”

“Rouge,” she said.

“What’s it for?”

“None of your business,” she said, but when he turned amused eyes on her she sighed. “You use it to tint the lips and cheeks.”