"I mean that I would like you to come back to Somerfield," he said, "not to return the dog, not to look at boundary records, not for any reason that I have to construct afterward to explain why I have asked you to come. I mean... I mean that the library is considerably less interesting without you in it, which is something I did not expect to discover about a room I have spent twenty years in." He looked at her directly. "I mean that if you were willing to stay—not at Somerfield, I mean eventually... I mean if you were—"
"Rafferty," she said.
He stopped. She had used his name—not *Your Grace*, which she had used for six months with perfect consistency—his name, said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though she had been keeping it for exactly this use.
"I know what you mean," she said.
A pause. The fire, the dark outside.
"Yes?" he said.
"Yes," said Adelaide. "Obviously, yes."
She was close enough now that he could see the small vertical line between her brows that appeared when she was thinking, and the way her eyes changed when she was trying not to smile, and the smile was winning.
"The fountain," she said, "was not in its expected position."
"I had it moved," he said.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"In September. Twelve feet to the left." He looked at her. "It's where it should have been."