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Or perhaps he had. Perhaps riding away from Hawk in the Vale and his friend had been a renunciation of the deepest kind.
    At least there were birds. He’d not imagined the bird-song, and he saw a sparrow fly across from tree to ivy, and swifts swooping up near the roof. He could pick out a thrush’s trill and a robin’s happy song. Maybe the birds were singing that there was a lot to be said for an artificial garden surrounded by high walls.
    He began to see a pattern in the courtyard paths. Pentangles. An occult symbol. He shook his head. In the center stood a statue fountain that had not been here eleven years ago. There seemed to be a woman and a dragon. He assumed it was bizarre.
    A torture chamber, too.
    Deeply, truly, he wanted no part of this place, safe or not.
    A movement caught his eye, and he saw Susan come out of one side of the house and walk briskly across a diagonal of the courtyard. She was still in the dull gray and white that offended him, with that cap covering almost all her hair, but her walk was free and graceful.
    Her clothes eleven years ago had been schoolroom wear, but more lively and becoming than this. Come to think of it, they’d been almost entirely pale colors, and she’d always been grimacing about mud, sand, and grass stains from their adventures.
    What was his free spirit doing in gray playing housekeeper here?
    Clearly not seeking to seduce him. She’d dress more becomingly for that.
    She paused to study some tall, plumy flowers. He suspected that there was some interesting insect on them.
    She had always loved insects.
    What do you mean, always? You knew her for two weeks.
    But it hadn’t simply been a fortnight. It had been a lifetime in fourteen days. She’d loved to watch insects, often lying down on the ground or in the sand to study and wonder, to analyze their quirks of behavior. She’d carried a sketching pad and drawn them, showing real talent. That had been her key to freedom, the fact that she went out to study and draw insects, but it hadn’t been pretense.
    He watched her watch. Then she straightened, stretching her head back to take a deep, relished breath.
    He inhaled with her, and carefully, quietly, opened the casement window to let in the same perfumed air that she was breathing.
    Not quietly enough. With the window only half open, she started and looked up at him.
    He conquered the urge to step back. The sill hit him at hip level, so he was essentially decent, though naked.
    Their eyes held for what seemed to be far too long. He saw her lips part, as if she might speak, or perhaps just to catch air.
    Then she broke the contact and turned to walk briskly, more briskly, across the courtyard and away.
    He stayed there, arms braced on the sill, breathing as if breathing were difficult. For so long he’d told himself that their time here had been a minor thing, a passing moment, that her agonizing dismissal of him had wiped away any warm feelings and—paradoxically—hadn’t hurt a bit.
    He’d always known it was a lie.
    Fifteen. He’d been fifteen, bedazzled, scared, eager….
    It had been a strange progression from sitting on the headland talking about everyday things, to lying side by side on their bellies talking about personal matters, to holding hands as they walked along the beach, to sitting in one another’s arms sharing dreams and fears.
    The moon had become full during that second week, and twice they’d sneaked out at night to sit on the beach surrounded by the magic music of the sea, to talk of anything and everything. He’d wanted to build a fire but she’d told him it was illegal. It could be a signal fire for smugglers, so it was illegal.
    She’d known a lot about smugglers and shared it all, and he’d been romantically thrilled by stories of the Freetraders. Then she’d admitted her personal connection—that she wasn’t a daughter of Sir Nathaniel and Lady Kerslake at the manor, but of Sir Nathaniel’s sister Isabelle and the keeper of the George and Dragon