All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

17. Seventeen

Seventeen

Darcy swung down from his horse outside Meryton’s post office, handing the reins to a waiting boy with a brief nod. The bustle of the small village carried on around him—hawkers calling out their wares, carts rumbling over uneven stones—but Darcy paid them little mind. He reached into his coat for the letter he had penned that morning, intent on posting it himself. A trivial errand, perhaps, but it provided an excuse to clear his head.

He had barely stepped onto the path when an all-too-familiar voice greeted him with effusive cheer.

“Ah, Mr. Darcy! What an honor it is to cross paths with you on such a fortuitous morning!”

Darcy paused, turning just in time to see Mr. Collins bustling toward him, a grin plastered across his face and his hat clutched in both hands as if in reverence.

“Mr. Collins,” Darcy acknowledged. “A surprise.”

“A most delightful one, sir!” Collins beamed. “And might I say, your presence graces our humble village. I see you have a letter. May I presume, sir, that you are engaged in correspondence with some fair maiden?”

Darcy’s expression remained impassive, though he immediately understood Collins’s insinuation. Collins, ever eager to curry favor, would assume the maiden in question was none other than Miss de Bourgh, in line with Lady Catherine’s long-standing hopes. But he was not entirely wrong, and… perhaps it would serve Darcy’s interests to let the man have his assumptions.

“I was writing to a lady, yes,” Darcy said. “It is a matter of some importance.”

Collins practically quivered with approval. “Ah! A lady of great distinction, no doubt! Lady Catherine, of course, will be most gratified by this news. I dare say, sir, that your thoughtfulness toward the fairer sex is an example to us all.”

Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I am sure the lady will be pleased to hear from me.”

Collins leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And may I ask, Mr. Darcy, whether you included some of your celebrated poetry? A lady of such refined sensibilities would surely be moved by a well-crafted verse.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. So Elizabeth had told her cousin about the incident at Netherfield. He could imagine her recounting it with that mischievous glint in her eye, turning his humiliation into an amusing anecdote. The thought irritated him more than it should have.

“I did not,” he said curtly. “The letter’s purpose was of a more practical nature.”

Collins nodded eagerly, undeterred by Darcy’s cool tone. “Of course, of course! Practicality is, after all, the cornerstone of any sensible engagement. But a dash of sentiment never goes amiss, eh?”

Darcy fixed Collins with a steady gaze, his patience wearing thin. “I am sure the lady will appreciate my efforts. Perhaps she will even elaborate her approval when I see her in person.”

“Indeed, sir!” Collins said, beaming. “And might I add, what a fine idea it would be for you to visit in some haste! A gentleman’s presence always carries more weight than mere words on paper.”

Darcy gave a slight nod. “I am considering it.”

Collins nearly bounced on his heels in excitement. “Splendid! I must say, Lady Catherine would no doubt applaud your decisiveness. She has often remarked upon your excellent judgment in such matters.”

“Quite,” Darcy said briskly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to attend to.”

“Of course, of course!” Collins said, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure, sir, as always. Do give my regards to Lady Catherine when next you see her. If I am not mistaken, you may precede me. It may be that our individual hopes might even be answered within the same week!”

Darcy merely inclined his head and walked into the office. As he rode back toward Netherfield some minutes later, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. Collins’s absurd insinuations about Anne de Bourgh were of little consequence, but Elizabeth’s role in spreading word of his ill-fated poem lingered uncomfortably in his mind.

If she thought to unsettle him, she was succeeding all too well. But two could play at that game.

Elizabeth sidestepped a puddle as she and Jane made their way through the bustling streets of Meryton. Lydia flitted ahead, stopping at intervals to peer into shop windows or flirt with passing officers. The air was filled with the hum of chatter, louder and more excitable than usual.

“It seems all of Meryton has turned out today,” Jane remarked, glancing at the growing clusters of townsfolk gathered in animated conversation.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said dryly, “and I suspect it has less to do with fine weather and more to do with fine gossip.”

As they passed the baker’s shop, the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Long reached Elizabeth’s ears. “Oh yes, yes! Mr. Darcy will be leaving before the ball, mark my words. Mr. Collins said it was on the best authority.”

Elizabeth stopped mid-step. “Mr. Collins? On the best authority? That hardly bodes well.”

Jane hesitated, her expression uncertain. “Do you think it could be true?”

“I think,” Elizabeth said with a grimace, “that if Mr. Collins were the sole authority on the rain holding off, one would do well to carry a parasol even in a drought.”

Before Jane could respond, Mrs. Philips emerged from a nearby haberdashery, clutching a parcel of fabric in one hand and a feathered hat in the other. She leaned toward Mrs. Long, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of fresh gossip. “An engagement, you say? To Lady Catherine’s daughter?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Long whispered. “Mr. Collins claims it is practically settled.”

Lydia, who had been inspecting bonnets with Kitty, spun around and dashed toward the knot of gossipers. “An engagement for Mr. Darcy? How positively dull! I thought he was far too proud to marry anyone at all.”

“Lydia!” Jane whispered, scandalized.

“Oh, do not be such a bore, Jane,” Lydia said with a wave of her hand. “This is far more interesting than lace trimmings. Besides, if he does leave, that means we can place bets on when he goes. I daresay he stays through the ball—I should wager two shillings on it!”

Elizabeth groaned quietly. Before she could drag her sister away, a familiar voice sounded from behind.

“Do you see what I mean?” Charlotte Lucas fell into step beside Elizabeth, her eyes alight with amusement. “The entire town is in an uproar.”

“And all over something ridiculous,” Elizabeth muttered. “Does anyone truly believe that Mr. Darcy intends to marry Miss de Bourgh?”

Charlotte tilted her head. “You know as well as I do that belief in Meryton requires far less evidence than it ought.”

Elizabeth sighed. “You sound like you find this amusing.”

“I do,” Charlotte said, her voice calm but pointed. “But you should not. If Mr. Darcy leaves before the ball, I believe you forfeit your wager.”

Elizabeth stopped walking. “Surely you cannot mean that. This is idle speculation at best.”

Charlotte gave her a knowing look. “Idle speculation or not, if he is gone before the ball, it matters little. He will have left, and you will have lost.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, but found no suitable retort. Charlotte pressed on, her tone softening. “Lizzy, I know you never truly cared for gaining his affections—no matter how little you like the idea of losing the wager—but do not pretend his departure would mean nothing to you. You dislike the idea more than you are willing to admit.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms, feeling a prick of irritation—not with Charlotte, but with herself. She had practically handed Mr. Darcy the suggestion to leave when they last spoke. And now, absurd though it was, the notion that he might actually take her advice left an unexpected tightness in her chest.

“You think too much of it,” she said, resuming her pace with renewed briskness. “The entire thing is preposterous.”

“Perhaps,” Charlotte agreed, though the gleam in her eye suggested she thought otherwise.

They had barely gone another ten paces when Lydia bounded back, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Elizabeth! Charlotte! You will never guess—Mrs. Philips says Mrs. Goulding has already put down a shilling that he will be gone by Thursday!”

“I should wager on it myself,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath.

Charlotte heard and raised a brow. “Truly? That would be quite the vote of confidence in your own success.”

Elizabeth gave her a sharp look. “Who said I was not going to wager the opposite?”

“Pity,” Charlotte said lightly. “You might have won something , at least.”

The bell above the door chimed as Elizabeth stepped into the bookshop, the cozy quiet welcoming her more than anything else had that day. She moved to the back, scanning the shelves without any real intent, more interested in the calm than in finding something to read.

“Miss Bennet.”

She turned at the sound of Darcy’s voice, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. Good heavens, was the man following her? “Mr. Darcy. Of course. Where else would one find you but lurking near the poetry?”

Darcy gave a slight bow, a faint smirk touching his mouth. “And where else would I find you but bent on teasing me?”

“I suppose it is only fair. You do seem drawn to opportunities for torment.”

“I was under the impression you found my poetry entertaining,” he said dryly, gesturing toward the nearby shelf.

“Oh, immensely so,” she replied. “It was unforgettable. Truly.”

He returned the book in his hand to the shelf with deliberate care. “If you are here to continue that line of critique, I must warn you that I’ve yet to recover from your last appraisal.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly, moving to a nearby shelf. “Consider this my act of mercy, then. I’ve no intention of critiquing anything today.”

“Mercy from you, Miss Bennet?” Darcy arched a brow. “Now that is unexpected.”

“Occasionally, I am magnanimous,” she said lightly, glancing at a row of novels. “Besides, I would hate to disturb your ‘quiet.’”

“It is difficult to find, particularly in Meryton.”

“Ah, yes. One imagines it must be quite a trial for you,” Elizabeth said, turning to face him. “Everyone is terribly curious about any single gentlemen, of course. Our quaint little town and its noisy, excitable residents must be dreadfully taxing on your composure.”

Darcy didn’t answer immediately, though a trace of amusement lingered in his expression. “Perhaps it is not the town itself, but certain residents, who make it... lively.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Surely you are not including Mr. Collins among those?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Why do you choose that name in particular?”

“Oh—” Elizabeth let her fingers stray down the spine of a nearby book. “It seems you are rather friendly with my cousin. Some might even say he is in your confidence.” She turned an arched brow at him.

“I had someone else in mind entirely.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the silence grew noticeably heavier. Elizabeth, not one to leave awkward pauses unattended, picked up the nearest book and opened it without looking at the title.

“Tell me, do you recommend this one?” she asked, holding the book up.

Darcy leaned slightly to see it. “That depends. Do you enjoy political treatises?”

Elizabeth shut the book with a snap. “Perhaps I will save it for a particularly sleepless night.”

“A wise choice.” He looked away, then, almost as if he were dismissing her.

Elizabeth flipped idly through the book she had grabbed, casting a sidelong glance at Darcy. There must be something she could say to provoke him. Something to coax a confession of sorts from him, so she could learn how much of the day’s gossip was true. She landed on a weak prospect and gave it rein.

“I do not suppose I have told you, Mr. Darcy, but my aunt hails from Derbyshire.”

“You have not said that, no.” He never even looked up.

“She often speaks of the beauty of the area. I imagine she would be familiar with your home if I asked her. After all, according to Miss Bingley, Pemberley is the finest jewel in the county.”

He blinked, and she saw a flicker where his jaw muscles clenched, then relaxed, but his only sound was a noncommittal hum.

Something she said was stirring him, though she could not know whether for good or ill. But she had no better ideas, so she stepped a little closer. “It must be quite something to manage a great estate like Pemberley. Constantly coming and going, letters to write, people to manage…” She trailed off casually, letting the words hang just long enough to seem natural.

Darcy, who had been pretending to examine the titles on the shelf beside him, turned slightly toward her, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. “It is a responsibility, yes. But a necessary one.”

“I suppose it leaves little time for more... leisurely pursuits. Travel, for example?”

Darcy’s brow lifted slightly, a reaction so subtle that had she not been watching closely, she might have missed it. “I travel only when it is required.”

“Or when your presence is requested by a friend? That is, after all, why you are at Netherfield, I suppose.”

“Just so.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, turning a page without reading it. “And yet, all the tittle-tattle says you may soon be required to leave Hertfordshire.”

There it was—the bait.

Darcy did not react as she expected. No startled denial, no accidental confirmation. Instead, his lips curved ever so slightly in what could only be described as a knowing smile.

Darcy gave a slight bow. “Curiosity, after all, is what makes life interesting. And can there be a more perfect expression of curiosity than the local gossip?”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “In a town like Meryton, gossip is practically currency. And at present, you seem to be quite the valuable commodity.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I am not sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.”

“Perhaps both,” she replied lightly, then, with a seemingly casual air, added, “I suppose it is inevitable when someone of your standing—so full of... mystery—lingers in the neighborhood.”

Darcy’s lips curved slightly, though whether it was amusement or irritation, Elizabeth could not tell. “Mystery, Miss Bennet, is often simply another word for discretion.”

“And discretion often invites speculation,” she countered. “You cannot be surprised that people are curious. Especially when there are whispers of you leaving, possibly to visit... significant acquaintances.”

She saw it—a flicker of something in his expression before he masked it. “Significant?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, tilting her head. “I know not how many people have heard of your sister, but that is not the nature of the general speculation. It is hardly a secret that Lady Catherine de Bourgh wishes to see you... settled.”

Darcy’s gaze sharpened, though his tone remained maddeningly calm. “I had not realized your interest extended to my personal arrangements.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “Merely idle curiosity. After all, if you do plan to leave, it would only be fair to warn the town. There are bets riding on how long you shall remain.”

“Bets?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “It is Meryton, after all. Though,” she added, with mock gravity, “if you were to leave before the ball, I imagine you would disappoint a great many people.”

“And would you count yourself among them, Miss Bennet?”

The question was delivered with such quiet force that it gave her pause. Elizabeth blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before regaining her composure. “I would count myself among those curious to see how you manage an evening among such tedious company. I, for one, am entirely certain you will do all in your power to avoid it.”

His jaw flexed. “You may rest assured, Miss Bennet, that should I attend, I will strive not to disappoint.”

“Well, then,” Elizabeth said brightly, placing her book back on the shelf. “I suppose we shall have to wait and see if the wagers are won—or lost.”

Darcy inclined his head, his expression inscrutable once more. “Indeed. Though, as with most wagers, the outcome is never certain.”

The side of Elizabeth’s mouth turned up. “Which means, of course, that anything can still happen.”

Darcy placed the small volume of poetry on the counter and withdrew the necessary coins, nodding curtly to the shopkeeper. He had intended to leave the shop moments earlier, but Elizabeth had exited ahead of him, and he found himself lingering, watching as she paused just outside the door to speak with a cluster of red-coated officers. One of them, unmistakably Wickham, was standing far too close.

Darcy’s fingers tightened around the coins as he watched Wickham’s easy manner, the way he leaned in just slightly, speaking with that polished charm Darcy knew too well. Something cold and sharp twisted in his chest. Wickham was too skilled at ingratiating himself, too adept at hiding his true nature behind a mask of affability. And Elizabeth—clever as she was—had no idea who she was dealing with.

He should not care. It was none of his business whom she spoke to, and yet, the thought of her laughing with Wickham, letting him charm her… it set his teeth on edge. No, he could not allow it.

Darcy placed the coins on the counter with a decisive clink and turned toward the door. It had barely closed behind him when Wickham’s voice reached his ears.

“Miss Bennet, might I have the honor of escorting you back to Longbourn?”

Darcy’s pulse quickened, and before he could think better of it, he closed the remaining distance between them with measured strides. “I believe that privilege has already been spoken for.”

Elizabeth turned to him, her brow lifting slightly. Wickham’s smile slipped for just a moment before he masked it with an exaggerated bow. “Of course. I would not wish to intrude.”

Darcy ignored Wickham’s too-polite tone and glanced at Elizabeth, hoping she would play along. She studied him for a beat, then offered a gracious smile. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy did ask earlier. I had quite forgot.”

Wickham’s smirk widened as he inclined his head. “Ah, Mr. Darcy, ever the gentleman. How fortunate Miss Bennet is to have such attentive company.”

Darcy’s gaze flicked to Wickham, cool and unwavering. “Indeed, fortunate timing.”

Wickham’s eyes gleamed with something sharp beneath the surface, but he merely offered another bow. “A pleasure, Miss Bennet. Perhaps another time.” He lingered for a moment before turning back toward the other officers.

Elizabeth suppressed a chuckle as they walked away. “Attentive company, Mr. Darcy? How gallant of you.”

“I merely acted in the interest of propriety. It would be unwise to walk alone with... certain company.”

“Certain company,” she repeated, amused. “How mysterious. And yet, I find myself less curious about your meaning than about what Mr. Wickham did to earn such disdain.”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed ahead. “He is not a man to be trusted.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, waiting for more, but none came. “Is that all? Surely you can offer something more specific.”

Darcy hesitated, then said carefully, “His reputation among those who know him well speaks for itself.”

Elizabeth frowned slightly. “I see,” she said lightly. “You prefer to let whispers and rumors do the talking.”

“I prefer not to speak of him at all,” Darcy replied curtly. “Save to say this—you would do well to be on your guard about him.”

Elizabeth studied him, then burst out in to a laugh so merry and sarcastic that he stopped, flushed, and stared at her. “Why, Mr. Darcy, do you honestly imagine I did not take my measure of the man within the first evening of my acquaintance with him? You think I require such warnings like a silly schoolgirl?”

His jaw hardened. “You would not be the first.”

“Spare me. When a man makes a one shilling wager with a lady and cannot pay his forfeit—and has not even make a gallant gesture in apology in the fortnight since his loss—he has little standing in this neighborhood.”

Darcy’s cheek twitched, and she could see him visibly forcing air into his lungs. “Perhaps… Meryton’s odd penchant for frivolous betting has proved a… a magnifying glass of sorts.”

“Perhaps it has, Mr. Darcy. Unless you have something particular to say about the lieutenant, I shall keep my own counsel. Now, shall we continue in silence, or would you prefer some poetry to lighten the mood?”

Darcy shot her a sharp look, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Spare me.”

“Not in the mood for conversation, I see,” she said, arching a brow. “Well, since you were so eager to join me, you may have to suffer through my company.”

Darcy resisted the urge to sigh. Her teasing always had a way of unraveling his carefully maintained composure. He caught her gaze flickering toward the small book he still carried, wrapped in paper.

“And what is this treasure you’ve acquired?” she asked, her tone innocently curious, though the mischief in her eyes gave her away.

Darcy held the book slightly closer to his side. “Merely a volume of… of poetry.”

“Poetry! Surely not more of the sentimental kind, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy gave her a sidelong glance. “It is hardly sentimental. It is Cowper.”

Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed with interest and something else—challenge. “I should like to see this unsentimental poetry of yours.” Without waiting for permission, she deftly plucked the book from his hand.

“Miss Bennet—”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Darcy,” she said, flipping open the pages with an exaggerated air of importance. “What do we have here? Shall I read it aloud?”

Darcy tensed, caught between amusement and alarm. “If you insist on making a spectacle of it, at least choose something suitable.”

Elizabeth flipped through the pages with a gleam of mischief and, settling on a poem, cleared her throat as though preparing to deliver a proclamation to a packed hall. She raised the book high, tilting her head with mock solemnity before launching into an overly dramatic reading:

“‘Obscurest night involv’d the sky, Th’ Atlantic billows roar’d, When such a destin’d wretch as I, Wash’d headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left.’”

Her voice rose on ‘roar’d ’ and lingered on ‘board,’ her hand sweeping out as if presenting a grand celestial scene to an invisible audience. Darcy, watching from beside her, raised a brow, his arms folding over his chest.

“‘No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast, With warmer wishes sent. He lov’d them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.’”

Elizabeth cast a pointed glance at Darcy, widening her eyes theatrically and fluttering her lashes with exaggerated delicacy. She paused meaningfully, lowering her voice to an absurd hush for effect:

“‘Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But wag’d with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.’”

Her tone dropped into an overdone whisper on ‘die away,’ her fingers clasping over her heart. Darcy’s lips pressed tightly, the corners twitching despite his best efforts.

“‘He shouted: nor his friends had fail’d To check the vessel’s course, But so the furious blast prevail’d, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.’”

Her intonation soared ridiculously on ‘ fail’d ’ and ‘ wind ,’ as though each word carried the weight of the cosmos. She placed a hand over her brow, mimicking a swoon.

“‘Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delay’d not to bestow. But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, Whate’er they gave, should visit more.’”

On ‘ bestow ,’ Elizabeth made a grand sweeping gesture, her hand trailing through the air like the flight of an imaginary raven. Darcy exhaled audibly, the closest he would allow himself to come to a laugh.

She finished with a final flourish, lowering her voice to a whisper as though concluding a great soliloquy:

“‘He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent pow’r, His destiny repell’d; And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!’”

She snapped the book shut and turned to Darcy with an impish grin. “There, how was that for poetry? Did I capture its essence?”

Darcy, at last, gave a soft exhale that might have been a laugh had it escaped with more force. “You are mangling the meaning entirely.”

Elizabeth feigned shock, clasping her hand to her chest. “Mangling it? Why, Mr. Darcy, I read the words exactly as they were printed, changing not a single syllable.”

“Yes, but your emphasis is all wrong. You contort the intent and have entirely undone the rhythm.”

“I thought I was giving it life! Surely you appreciate a little… creative interpretation.”

“Interpretation?” he repeated, stepping closer and plucking the book from her hand. “What you were giving it was melodrama. Poetry is meant to be felt, not paraded about like a stage performance.”

Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed with challenge. “Then, by all means, show me how it is done properly.”

Darcy hesitated. He knew her game, but something about her challenge—and the undeniable curiosity in her gaze—made it impossible to refuse. With a resigned breath, he took the book from her hands and opened it to the same poem, his fingers resting lightly on the worn edges of the pages. Without theatrics or flourish, he began:

“‘At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in ev’ry blast, Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.’”

His voice, while calm, drew subtle attention to “ catch the sound no more, “ the faintest emphasis lending a quiet reverence to the words. He paused just slightly before continuing, his gaze focused on the text as though it held some profound truth:

“‘No poet wept him: but the page Of narrative sincere; That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson’s tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.’”

There was no excess in his delivery, no exaggerated emphasis—only a thoughtful cadence, as though he were savoring the words for their own sake. His voice dipped slightly on ‘ tears ,’ giving it a weight that lingered in the air. Elizabeth’s smile, which had begun as all amusement, was now fading into something more contemplative.

“‘I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date: But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another’s case.’”

Here, his voice softened almost imperceptibly, the rhythm becoming more fluid, as though mimicking the gentle movement of the heavens themselves. His pauses were deliberate, his inflections subtle, creating a quiet intensity that made the poem seem less recited and more felt.

Elizabeth’s teasing expression was long gone. She watched him closely, her steps slowing. When he reached the final lines, his voice grew quieter still, carrying a strange, unexpected warmth:

“‘No voice divine the storm allay’d, No light propitious shone; When, snatch’d from all effectual aid, We perish’d, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm’d in deeper gulfs than he.’”

When he finished, Darcy closed the book, his eyes meeting hers for a beat longer than was proper. “Satisfied, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth blinked, seeming to shake off some sort of sheen over her eyes. “Well,” she said, “That was… tolerable.”

Darcy raised a brow, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Tolerable?”

“Yes, tolerable,” she insisted, though the teasing edge in her voice was less sharp than usual. “Perhaps even acceptable. But I suppose even a good reading cannot save overly sentimental poetry.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, the smirk fully forming now. “Perhaps you have higher standards than I imagined.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her teasing smile returning in full force. “Oh, I do. But perhaps you might meet them one day.”

They continued walking, the playful tension lingering between them like the echo of the poem’s final lines, neither entirely willing to break it.