Ida fully anticipated his shock. Perhaps confusion, dismay, disgust? She expected him to make a swift departure, leaving her rattled but at least alone with her thoughts. In the light of the next day’s nausea and debilitating remorse over everything she said, she would grimace and lay in bed all day, and worry for weeks that he’d tell her brother and she’d be picked up by men in white jackets from St Mungo’s or tricked into a boat headed to Shanghai to be married. That’s what she expected, truly, and she was already halfway to working through justifications for why what she said was still the right thing to do tonight.

But instead, he reached for her hands. Survival instinct had her grab hold, and to the desired outcome— her spiraling thoughts ground to a halt, and she was so bewildered at the response she nearly forgot how hard her heart pounded or how warm her face felt. She even forgot to cry, and looked confused as she tipped her head to the side.

Ida thought to ask him if he heard what she said, but once he quoted a poem to her, she knew he did. Then he carried on quite as amicably as if he’d just found out they prefer the same flavor pie, and this attitude was most astounding of all. He said be careful— people won’t understand.

“What is there to understand,” she half-asked in a meek voice that trailed off without expectation of answer. Because it’s a mental sickness, isn’t it? To fall in love with people one can’t really be in love with. It pointed to something broken in her brain. Perhaps he didn’t take what she said seriously— the thought so outlandish he must suppose she meant this in a platonic sense, and chalked it up to her being tipsy and confused. If that was what he thought, perhaps Ida would have been offended.

But it wasn’t, was it? Because he told her to be careful, and now he told her— “You’ll help me!” She parroted back, incredulous. Instinctively, her hands clutched their anchor at his fingertips. “No. Why would you?”

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