Theo sat down on the dry spot, pensive. After a second he pulled one knee up, and rested an arm atop it.
Henry sat down beside him. Thought of another night they’d been here, the first time Theo’d kissed him.
Theo said, “This was a good idea. It’s quiet, up here.”
“It is.” The air tasted of rain, and lamplight, and drizzle-wet stone. The tower held them both up. “I love this spot.”
“So do I.”
Theo went quiet again, after that, so Henry did too: listening to the rain as it fell and splashed.
After a while, he said, “Fareham’s in love with your brother.”
Theo turned his way, astonished, framed by rainfall. “David? He is not—I mean, they’ve been friends since Eton, of course, he’s always around, he’s always—but he’s never—surely we’d’ve known!”
“Well.” Not arguing. “You’d know him bet
