Ford had run through about a hundred different scenarios for his this conversation might play out, since he'd gotten Macnair's return letter earlier that evening and learned that the other man was still expecting him at eight. He'd imagined that Macnair might be cold, to try and fend off any emotional appeals he thought Ford might make. He'd imagined him callous, heartless, cruel. He'd imagined him neutral, mild, disconnected from this entire thing as though the last week had meant exactly nothing to him, which was presumably the truth. He'd even imagined Macnair uncomfortable at having been caught out in this, with some expression that bordered on sheepish, though it was hard to picture it when Macnair had always been so confident. In none of the scenarios Ford had conjured up in his mind had Macnair just walked straight up to him, touched him, and said I missed you.

What the hell was he doing? Whatever it was, it was working; Ford's stomach did an uneasy flip and he was back in his own parlor on Saturday morning, seeing the words for the first time and thinking there must have been a misprint. Maybe there was some mistake, or a misunderstanding — except there wasn't, because Macnair had written him a letter not two hours ago where he'd acknowledged it and then said something stupid about his mother. This engagement was real. Everyone was talking about it. Macnair must have been doing this on purpose, but why? Hadn't he already been cruel enough without adding insult to injury here by trying to take away even Ford's anger over this?

Ford swallowed hard. He didn't move away from Macnair's touch, but he didn't respond to it, either. "Did you?" he asked, tone level.

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