I pulled my wrist back. "It will fade."
Sebastian held my gaze. "That is not the measure of harm."
I had no clever answer. Worse, I did not want one. He released me slowly.
No more wardrobes.
I looked away. "I cannot promise that."
Sebastian signed my name: Clara.
My name in his voice did foolish things to the room. I surrendered. "Fine. Fewer wardrobes."
Sebastian corrected me: No wardrobes.
I tried again. "Emergency wardrobes only."
He closed his eyes, and to my great delight, his shoulders shook.
After that, our conspiracy grew legs. Sebastian began teaching me proper signs in the old music room, because it amused him to use a room built for sound as a classroom for silence. He showed me signs for: danger, wait, yes, no, liar, letter, window, and stop talking.
I objected to the last one. I watched his fingers. "That sign seems personal."
He signed it again, slower. Sebastian looked almost satisfied.
"Rude tyrant."
His mouth curved.
I learned quickly, though not gracefully; my fingers stumbled. I once signed chicken when I meant solicitor. Sebastian laughed silently for so long he had to sit down.
I defended myself at once: "They are similar!"
He wrote: Only in moral courage.
Sebastian signed with satisfaction: Exactly.
He taught me to face light when speaking, not to cover my mouth, and not to shout, because shouting only made people look like angry furniture. In return, I taught him the useful servant signs no noble family had bothered to learn: two taps on the tray meant Lady Portia approaches; a folded corner on a laundry sheet meant Lord Edmund searched this room; a teaspoon turned upside down meant Mrs. Kettle is furious—though that one was often unnecessary, because the weather changed when Mrs. Kettle was furious.
The Duke smiled more often. Not in public: in public, he remained remote, unreadable, and apparently unaware when Lady Portia arranged his life like flowers at a funeral. But when he and I were alone, he became dry, observant, unexpectedly wicked, and far too pleased with my mistakes.
One afternoon, while I practiced signing in the music room, I told him, "I need to sign for 'handsome.'"
Sebastian's eyebrow rose.
I added quickly, "For accuracy."
He signed it. I copied him badly. He shook his head, stepped behind me, and guided my fingers into the right movement. His hands were warm, even through gloves. I went very still. He noticed—of course he noticed; the man noticed dust thinking about settling. Sebastian stepped back at once.
"Again," he said.