This game is running the line between punishment and a show, and he aches at the contrast. How long had she played at touch-me-not—hardly in a coy way, never the ingénue when it had come to the space between them—but in the hesitating courtship, until he had made mountains of being allowed to touch her hair, kiss her, and she the same for him. And then there are their absences, where she withdrew to her grandfather’s house (fewer and fewer now) and he fretted at the absence of her, distracted by her absence and confused as if she had taken his right hand with her presence.

This is worse, in that she is there—and his body won’t let him forget it, perhaps she would forgive the slip if he disobeyed, if he came to her and bit at her neck, and held her as tight as he rarely allows himself to do—but he cannot touch her.

His hands find the headboard—or rather, a carved element of it—and fasten, fingers overlapped. He wants to pull the satin ribbons from her hair, his teeth itch at the carelessly discarded pins.

He says, “You will be the death of me.”