Ford couldn't help but chuckle at Wye's response. "They're not actually from the Portuguese. That's just the title," he explained. "The poet's perfectly English, I think. She's married to another poet, but I don't have any of his books." All of Ford's books of poetry were relics from the days before his father had died. He'd used to be in the habit of buying new books for himself once a month, or every two months at a stretch, because he liked reading new things; he'd been doing it ever since he was old enough to have an allowance from his parents. Since he'd taken charge of the finances, however, he'd never felt it was worth the expense to buy himself much of anything beyond the bare essentials, and books of poetry were, unfortunately, not essential.

"One minute, I'll grab it. You'll see," he said, before abandoning Milton on the garden bench and ducking back into the parlor. He returned a moment later with a slender purple volume. "They're fairly short. We could probably read all of them in one go, if you like."

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