“Not tomorrow.” Sam bit his lip, felt John’s hands around his, felt John’s eyes on him, steady as seasons, as the rhythm of winter turning to spring. “Not next week. But…ask me again in a month. Or two. I don’t care about the gossip. That part doesn’t matter. Society will be surprised, and then some duke’s daughter will elope with her governess, and no one’ll give a damn about us.”
“Besides, you’ll be retiring.”
“Maybe I’ll take up horticulture. Or write a history. The early years of the Preternatural Division. For whomever comes after Kit.”
“It’d be useful. Will you put in those stories?” John’s fingers found lightning again. “I don’t like those stories.”
“They’ll be useful training lessons, not sensational penny-printings. I might become a patron of the opera. The theatre. Every open
