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Saxon ramparts. Shall I be William?”
    Percival found himself at a loss in the face of this childlike playfulness in his acquaintance. “What?”
    “The Conqueror,” Mr. Everett specified, still grinning.
    “Oh!” Percival blinked at this revelation, and then remained befuddled. “And what shall I?”
    “Harold, perhaps, to defend your native England.” Entirely whimsical, Mr. Everett sat back against the edge of the ramparts. “Or William FitzOsbern, if you will be Norman alongside me.”
    “Come, Mr. Everett,” Percival scolded him, unable to help a smile in the face of Mr. Everett’s contagious cheer. “Are you here to conquer?”
    “No, certainly not,” Mr. Everett said, rising to his feet and taking a step forward, backing Percival against the wall of the ramparts. His eyes were intense and piercing, making Percival think once again of him as a sort of predatory cat. “I will only take what is freely offered.”
    Percival coloured deeply, eyes widening at what seemed the possibility of Mr. Everett indicating some sort of amorous intent.
    A kiss, perhaps , Percival thought.
    “Mr. Everett!” he said. “You forget yourself.”
    Mr. Everett stepped back quickly. “Perhaps I do,” he said, and dropped his eyes away. “Forgive me.”
    A weighty moment of silence hung between them. Uncertainty stopped Percival’s mouth, and he stared at Mr. Everett, heart pounding with the yearning that Mr. Everett would kiss him.
    “I think,” said Mr. Everett, with his polite, friendly smile returned to his face, “that I may come here sometimes with a book, to study. Do you suppose anyone would mind that?”
    “No, certainly,” Percival assured him. “Perhaps the old stones might enjoy the company.”
    “I hope they might,” Mr. Everett agreed. “I know I should enjoy study in such a restful locale. Will you show me the Roman ruins now?”
    “I will,” Percival said.
    Everything seemed almost returned to normal, as they made their way back down the ramparts and further along the lane. The ruins, in Mr. Carlton’s skirret-field, were only around the next curve in the lane, set just along the edge of where the bank dropped down toward the river Avon.
    What remained of the Roman stone walls were now merely low piles of rubble. Percival seated himself upon one of them, gazing out across the river and the rolling hills of Warwickshire. Mr. Everett sat beside him companionably.
    “Would it be rude of me,” Mr. Everett asked, “to comment that I do not believe this to be a Roman fortress?”
    “What?” Percival looked over at him in surprise. “But it is, most certainly. Linston records do indeed speak of the ruins here as pre-dating the time of the Saxon invasion, of a surety, and there was known to be Roman activity in this area, and—”
    “Rather I believe it to be a Roman villa ,” Mr. Everett corrected.
    Percival stopped himself in surprise. “Oh. Why so?”
    “The plan of the building, or what we can see of it. Even supposing that part of it may have been lost from the way the bank there encroaches and crumbles away, it is not laid out with defensive fortifications. It is laid out like a private residence. There, the atrium. These, cubiculi. The peristylium toward the edge of the field.”
    Percival looked where he indicated, but saw only crumbling stones and pillars. “I confess I don’t know the first thing about Roman villas.”
    “Shall I teach you?” Mr. Everett asked.
    “Yes,” Percival decided, with a pleased smile. “Do.”
    Mr. Everett rose and offered his hand, but seemed to almost immediately think the better of this and retracted it, putting his hands behind himself like a scolded child.
    “The cubiculi were the bedrooms. It looks as though there are six of them on this side of the house, though the rooms might also have been libraries or drawing-rooms, I suppose. You can see their outlines, there and there. Here in the centre, the impluvium, would be a rainwater