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“How long will you be staying here?” Dorian leans forward toward Agnes.

She tightens her grip on my arm.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are a guest here of your cousin Julian. You reside in France, if I am not mistaken?”

“Correct,” she replies, without taking her eyes off the path.

Behind us, Nathaniel sighs. “Lord Vasiliev Ashford seems to have lost all sense of decency. Again.”

“Brother, how dare you say that?”

Dorian smiles, his eyes glittering with venom as he replies, “Lady Isobel, you seem unaware that your brother takes pleasure in meddling in affairs that do not concern him.”

I turn slightly to observe Nathaniel, who is about to retort, and give a quick cough, breaking the tension.

“Is the pond much further?” I ask Agnes, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter tone.

“No, we have arrived.”

Before us, the dark water of the pond reflects the grey sky, framed by thin reeds and leafless trees. The ducks glide silently, leaving faint ripples on the surface.

“You see, the ducks,” I say to Dorian, without turning too much.

He detaches himself from Isobel’s arm, keeping his gaze fixed on me.

“I see them,” he murmurs.

Richard approaches the pond, leaning down slightly and dipping two fingers into the dark water.

“It is very cold.”

Dorian keeps his gaze on my hand, which still grips Agnes’s arm.

She leans toward the water, letting go of my arm.

“There should be carp as well.”

Isobel approaches, tilting her head. “I do not see any.”

“They are likely at the bottom.”

Dorian brings his gaze to mine, then takes a step toward the pond, and his pinky grazes the back of my hand, imperceptible, yet he does it. I take a step forward, lightly treading on his cloak. He nearly stumbles and stops.

He glares at me, but I pass him, the corner of my mouth curving as my gaze follows the ducks and the carp darting beneath the water’s surface.

I feel Dorian’s weight behind me. He leans in slightly, as if he were truly observing the fish, but I feel his shoe insinuating itself between mine. While the others continue talking, he leans further, drawing close to my ear.

“Esli eta zhenshchina eshche raz vas tronet, ya slomayu yey kazhdyy palets.”

I turn my face toward him, perplexed. “What?”

He merely smiles and looks into the pond.

Agnes turns toward Richard.

“Lord Brownell, it is said that you dabble in poetry, is that so?”