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There were two things people knew about Jarback Priest: that he was ugly and that he was clever, and he was clever enough to know a girl from a woman and a woman from Emily. Women could look at you through their lashes - even at him - but only Emily could do that peculiar slant upwards that told of secret, fascinating knowledge.
"In the Middle Ages, you would have been burnt as a witch," he told her, and she laughed.
"I might be even now," she said. It was true that some of the more provincial families glanced at her sideways; her own clan thought her strange and not a little bit mad. They had that in common.
"You won't," he said. "You'll only have to give them the Murray look and they'll flee for their lives." And there it was, one eyebrow arching up and the chin lifting with it; the coldest expression imaginable on a human face. Dean had limped through the streets of St Petersburg in winter and, were he a lesser man, still would have let her see him shiver.
He was Dean, however, and Dean Priest at that, thank you very much, and to let a Murray get the better of him in any way was anathema. Something in the genetics, if you subscribed to that theory - which Dean did, of course. He had always been interested in biology. He remembered collecting butterflies in his youth, catching them and killing them with a drop of ethyl alcohol. It was one of the many things he had not yet told Emily.
"Can we just sit?" she asked one day, her white brow creased painfully. "I've been quarrelling with Aunt Elizabeth for hours."
"We'll have years to talk," Dean said easily. "If that's what you want."
They sat down on the loveseat, and she leant against him. Her dark head tucked neatly under his chin and he felt the conscious relaxation of her body against his. But the lines were still there and so Dean picked up her hand, rubbing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was smooth and young, beautiful; Dean imagined it through the years and thought, even old and wrinkled she will still be the loveliest creature in my sight. "Mine eyes" may dazzle, but I would not have her die young.
Eventually she sat up and smiled, taking a deep breath. Dean squeezed her hand. "Shall we walk?"
"Please," she said.
They were out of sight of the house when they began to talk, about "shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings". He watched her face as they spoke in low voices, entranced by her expressiveness and the youthful gravity of her eyes. She had a wonderful smile, which Dean had seen everywhere while he was away from Blair Water. Teddy Kent was getting to be quite successful, too, which made it all somehow worse.
They paused for a moment by Lofty John's bush and Emily lifted her face to his. Dean took the hint and pulled her close, feeling the quickening of desire in her body. He kissed her deeply and for a long time before she broke away.
"We should go back up to the house," she said, but she was smiling so vividly that Dean could not begrudge her common sense. She began to stroll up the path. From behind, in her light dress, she looked like a particularly delicate butterfly. Enthralled, Dean caught her hand and pulled her to him again.
"Aunt Laura will be wondering where I am," she said, but she kissed him anyway. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, thrumming like the beat of a frightened butterfly's wings.
"I - " he began when they finally let go of each other. But there was nothing he could say that she did not already know, and her hand in his was all the answer he needed.