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easily in and out of love, and every time I did, I thought it would last forever. But what I was beginning to feel for Mr. Wynterbourne was different. The usual intense emotions were there, but it was as if something deep-rooted had begun to grow inside me. I sought a communion with him I did not understand and could not have put into words even if I had wanted to.
    One afternoon he leaned over my shoulder so closely that his body touched mine and said, “Let me see what you have so far, boy.” The feel of his warm breath against my ear caused my cock to rise. I swear he chuckled as he walked back to his desk. Sometime in early July he caught me distracted and staring out into the grounds, which had grown beautiful with the fullness of summer. I had missed several lines of dictation.
    â€œAm I keeping you from something you would rather be doing, boy?” His sarcastic schoolmaster tone snatched me from my reverie. I turned to him, my ire raised. I was sick of the job and sick of pining for a kind word or a warm look from him. I would rather he slapped me than offer this total negation of my being.
    â€œI should never have left London!” I burst out like a ridiculous child.
    Very calmly he asked, “What would you have done had you remained?” With one hand, he pulled the chair from behind his desk, plumped it in the middle of the room and sprawled in it, elbows propped on the arms, fingers steepled, long legs stretched out before him. His intense gaze rested upon me and my cheeks began to grow warm. The only thing I hated about being so blond was the tendency for every emotion to show in my face. He beckoned me to stand before him. “Speak,” he demanded. “Tell me all about yourself.”

    I was in shock. Moments ago I was bored to tears and resentful that he ignored me. Now I stood before him, all his attention focused on me, and I wished myself a mile hence. I had no idea where to start. “My mother is on the stage. I too worked on the stage.”
    â€œWhat did you do on the stage?” His eyes looked serious yet his mouth tilted at the corners and I was certain he wanted to laugh.
    â€œI was a magician’s assistant for a time and sometimes I would dress up to take part in skits, but I want to be a singer again. I sang on the stage when I was younger. I was billed as Amethyst ’ s Angel . But then my voice broke.”
    â€œThat does tend to happen. Sing for me,” he ordered.
    I trembled. I stood only a few feet from him utterly exposed in this small venue. I clasped my hands before me and raised my voice in an old music hall love song. When I was done the silence filled the room with far more intensity than my singing.
    At last he spoke. “Why did you leave the theater?”
    â€œMy mother insisted I do something more respectable.” I hated saying that, but it was what she told me.
    â€œYour mother wanted you to do something you could make a living at because you will never again make a living with that voice. It’s awful,” he said calmly.
    I turned from him quickly to hide the hot tears coursing down my pink cheeks. I hated him! I wanted to strike him and run from the house back to my mother. How could he treat me so cruelly?
    â€œBoy,” I heard him say. I would not face him again, but stood at the window with heaving shoulders, crying silently. Then he was behind me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, pinning my body to his. With his other hand he wiped my tears and drew me round to face him. I pressed my hot face into his chest and
felt his hand on the back of my head, caressing my hair.
    â€œJade. Precious Jade,” he whispered my name. “Don’t cry, beautiful boy.” Thrilled and shocked by turns at this unexpected intimacy, I dared not move for fear he would become sensible of his madness and let me go. “Your voice is dreadful but I was rather cruel in saying so. Your writing on the other hand is