Bard opened the door to his tiny room and Victory inched around him on the narrow landing to go inside. She sat on his bed and threw off her leather jacket. Under it, she was wearing a black-and-white striped boatneck shirt that made Bard think of The Ramones, who made him think about Kai. He stood at the window, hands in pockets, gazing out.

Victory leaned back against the wall. “So are you going to tell me what happened?”

Bard flopped down on the chair at his desk. “I’m such a pillock. He just wanted exposure in MMW.”

Victory considered this for a moment. “Are you sure? His ‘earnest boy openly and devastatingly keen on Bard Fox’ thing didn’t seem fake to me.”

Bard leaned back and let his head flop. “Trust me, it was. The... the—nonsense he told me, Victory. Twaddle about reading minds and—it’s all too stupid to recount.”

“See, that’s where what the barman told me comes in,” Victory said, leaning forward toward Bard, her elbows on her knees. “Kai Harper is the nephew of that guru, Jude Kalani.”

Bard frowned. “He said he lives with his uncle, but I don’t know who he is. Kalani—what kind of name is that?”

“Hawaiian, apparently. Surely you noticed that Bard looks... well, like he’s not from around here.”

“He said he’s from California.”

“A person can be Hawaiian and from California, you great ignoramus. You know what I mean.”

Bard pictured Kai—his black hair, hooded dark eyes, light brown skin. He must not be all Hawaiian. His last name—Harper—would be his father’s, probably. “I guess I didn’t really notice.”

Victory rolled her eyes. “That’s not as enlightened as you think it is. Anyway, you know all that hippie nonsense in America back in the ‘60s—Kai’s uncle was mixed up with that and he got involved with some kind of cult. I don’t know what their deal was entirely—the barman says the usual spiritual stuff. He came here because he was ‘called,’ started taking in stray kids, runaways, teaching them.”

“That certainly is... eccentric,” Bard said. “But what does it have to do with Kai?”

“Well, it explains the strange stuff he told you about mind-reading or whatever it was. It’s his uncle’s influence.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t trying to use me—and Cass. Forget him, Vic—he’s a bloody... He’s nothing.”

“OK,” Victory said, “but you don’t mean that.”

“I do. I really do.” He pushed his hair out of his face. “It’s just that—I don’t know, I feel so stupid. Like some sad sop so desperate to be liked that I’ll believe any bloody thing.”

He realized with a rush of shame that he was crying. Crying over what? Some American boy he’d known for eight hours? No, it was always something else—always the the other thing. It was a warning, this disappointment that could have been heartbreak—Bard was meant to live the rest of his life, however short or long that would be, alone, unloved, unloveable. It was the only safe way.

“Oh,” said Victory. “Oh, you great sodding idiot, don’t do that.”

She came over to him and wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders. He stiffened and then let himself sag into her.

After a moment, Victory pulled away. “If you got snot in my hair, I’ll ruin you,” she said. She put her hands around his forearms and squeezed, her earnest blue eyes fixed on his face. “Come on, then. Don’t be hard on yourself. I’ve had it worse over boys half as pretty. But that’s not all it is, is it.”

“No, that’s not all it is.”

“You’re not thinking of maybe talking about it, are you?”

“I am—thinking of it. But, no, not now.”

“Right. This is to be a purely physical exchange, then. You need a rest and a cuddle. Get that puny body on your bed.”

Bard sighed but obeyed, curling up on his side on his narrow bed, facing the wall. Victory lay down and spooned up next to him, arm across his waist, nose against his shoulder, her breath warming his skin through his T-shirt.

“I hate to admit this,” Bard said, “but this is actually slightly comforting. You’re like a hot water bottle.”

“Sshh. It’s not sexy if you talk.”

Bard elbowed her in the side gently, and then settled his head into his pillow. “Thank you,” he murmured.