Stephen’s mouth tipped. “Your ambitions are modest.”
“They’re seasonal,” Nicholas said. “Do say you’ll come. I need to test your reflexes.”
Violet read the hesitation in Maria’s face and touched her wrist. “We can decline.”
Maria looked at Nicholas, at Violet, and at Stephen, who had gone very still, waiting on her choice without comment.
“I’ll go,” Maria heard herself say. “If the lawn is dry.”
“It isn’t,” Nicholas said cheerfully. “It’s damp and unwise, which only improves the game.”
“It improves nothing,” Stephen said. “But we’ll come.”
Maria kept her eyes on her own small circle: Nicholas, too pleased; Violet, ready to defect if needed; Stephen, hands behind his back, already listening for rules no one would admit existed.
A scarf appeared. A man submitted to the blindfold and promised not to cheat; the circle tightened; laughter rose and fell. Nicholas elbowed Stephen.
“Care to surrender your dignity first?”
“I carry so little of it,” Stephen said. “You first.”
Nicholas thrust his hands to Violet, who tied the scarf with the tidy competence of a woman who had wrangled worse. He spun,staggered, then adjusted—chasing laughter once, then, learning, chasing silence. He missed, laughed, missed better, and caught an unfortunate gentleman who protested with mock dignity. The crowd approved; Violet clapped, soft and fond.
“Next,” Nicholas said, ripping off the scarf, flushed and wild. “Verwood?”
“By all means,” Stephen said, and let Nicholas tie the folded linen over his eyes with more zeal than necessary.
“Careful,” Maria said before she could catch the word back.
Stephen turned his head toward her voice, blindfolded and attentive. “I am,” he said, and she pretended not to feel that.
Released, he moved with a hunter’s gait—listening, guessing wind and grass, hands extended just enough to avoid scandal and still succeed. Laughter darted ahead of him; he adjusted. He missed twice on purpose; then he reached and closed gentle hands around a pair of elbows.
“Caught!” Nicholas crowed.
Stephen stood still and tilted his head. “Miss,” he said politely to the squeak that answered, and released at once. No showing off. Just the measure of a space.
The scarf came round again. Maria hoped to be spared, but Violet, who knew play could teach as well as expose, nudged thecloth into Maria’s hands. “Once,” Violet murmured. “If you hate it, I’ll faint with great conviction.”
“You won’t,” Maria said.
“I will if needed,” Violet said, smiling.
The scarf was soft against Maria’s lashes. The world shortened to sound and air. She was too aware of the outline she carried into rooms—hips, waist, the shape she tried to tuck into corners.
The old dread licked up:they’ll know you by touch.
She spun, and a hand brushed her sleeve; she flinched and then reached past the flinch and caught a wrist.
“Violet,” she said, smiling.
“Unfair,” Violet laughed, kissing her cheek. “I smell like roses.”
The game pushed and pulled. She reached again and caught a lapel.
“Nicholas?” she ventured, mortified by her own certainty.
“Alas, sister,” Nicholas’s cheerful voice answered from much too near her ear. “You’re correct.”