There’s a pause as Ben seems to consider this argument for a moment. Finally, he shrugs. “Well, I think it’s a bit rich being schooled in social niceties by a girl who chases down bandits and assaults her would-be rescuers.”

I feel a smile tugging at my mouth. “Oh, but that girl sounds so much more interesting than a swooning maiden.”

“She sounds like a pain in the neck to me.” A quick answering grin flickers across his face. “And I can’t imagine you’re much of a swooner.”

“I can’t imagine you’ll ever find out.”

“Oh, really?” Something mischievous glints in his eyes and he takes a step towards me and then another. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Is that supposed to be seductive?” I ask, entertained.

Ben blinks. “Some people might think so.”

I consider the matter. “Perhaps they’re just distracted by a handsome face?”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me handsome.” Ben is clearly pleased with himself.

I give him a long look of appraisal. “I suppose that you are quite physically attractive.”

“You suppose?”

“I don’t think I have a broad enough sample for comparison. I’ve had quite a sheltered upbringing, you see, and I’d hate to be inaccurate. You are, perhaps, above average,” I concede.

Ben gives me a long look. “How kind of you to notice,” he says at last. “But I do seem to be loved by most ladies. You, Beatrice, are the exception.”

“How nice to be considered exceptional,” I murmur, the dryness in my tone matching his own.

He chuckles softly, a little reluctantly. “Peace, then?” he asks, holding out his hand.

“Peace,” I echo, slipping my fingers into his. The whole conversation has been strangely exhilarating.

I look past him, and finally notice an easel. There are tins of paint on the ground, and a jam jar full of murky water and paintbrushes. Sitting on the easel is a canvas covered with various angular shapes, swathes of green and red and grey.

“Is this what you’re working on?” I ask, moving to look at the painting.

“It is,” he says. “I’m just putting the finishing touches to it.”

“Mmmm.” I lean closer, looking at it with curiosity. Art isn’t something I know a lot about, but the picture makes me feel confused, churned up. There is nothing recognizable about the image, nothing solid to hold on to. I haven’t seen anything like it before. It’s certainly not like anything that has hung on the walls at Langton.

He frowns. “Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “It’s very nice.”

“Nice,” he repeats.

A glance at Ben’s face tells me that “nice” was, perhaps, the wrong word. I squint at the picture, trying to make sense of the jumbled shapes. The riot of angles and colours feels disorientating.

“I like the – um – green bits.”