"With an equal step"

January 9, 1895, Wednesday

The air was warmer, the altitude lower, the weather mild, but even that did little to stop him from recalling that terrible week after the blizzards. Cold, hungry, peckish, more than just the wind threatened to knock him off his feet that day as he remembered the extremes he'd pushed his body to. But, nothing ever compared to his dissonance. That threatened to consume him, devour his being, always looming in his mind when his defenses weaken.

Today, however, standing on an open barge in the middle of winter he couldn't have felt better. Rosalind was but an arm's length away, all poise and determination, between them two crates of flasks clinking and sloshing with every gust of wind that the barge sailed through. In this moment, these vials contained their collection of weeks of toils and the fruits of labor; their first completed project since the Contraption. Robert placed a steadying hand on them for good measure despite their security. He didn't think he could bear her disappointment if they were destroyed. Between the two of them, he would be their only work in progress.

Across the short distance, she glanced at him, sensing perhaps, his thoughts. This phenomenon between them was never invading, never unsettling. Indeed, they hypothesized it was a result of the dissonance; atoms accelerating between their minds to construct the same thought.

She did not like the reminder that he was imperfect, broken, a continuing conundrum that eluded her as intimately as it gave her all the answers she desired. But he was always careful to keep it prevalent in their minds, because he could not be the perfect mirror she believed him to be, so long as he bled and existed as she existed. It was that fact that clued him in to her tenacity and determination of the project. Originally, she had pursued them half-heartedly for Comstock, but the urgency and viability came to his attention as he realized that if the project succeeded, he might have an aid for his recovery and dissonance. He had never brought up his belief, unsure of her reaction. And now, when he glanced at her, it could have been the harshness of the wind, but her eyes narrowed at him, as if to keep the subject unspoken.

The barge listed slightly, imperceptible to one accustomed to traveling on it, much like sailors and sealegs, but the flasks clinked again as gravity shifted them a hairsbreadth.

Rosalind broke eye contact to glance back down at them and seemed pleased with their condition, smiling at him just as slightly as she returned her gaze.

Today, they would begin trials on humans. A series of grueling tests on rabbits and livestock proved successful and so they had put flyers up around the city to advertise new opportunities for compensation, specifically anyone with recent injuries or chronic and lifelong ailments. They were very sure to steer clear of Finkton, as even advertising ran the risk of drawing Fink's ire. Finkton was his domain, as Rosalind said.

He was hopeful they would have a good turnout today. They were providing substantial compensation, in amounts that only a year ago he would have scrambled for. It was something altogether to be the one enticing people to participate in experiments than to be the one participating for money. However, the reason for such amounts was that there was substantial chance for loss of life or limb.

The tests had been successful on rabbits and showed promise for human viability, but there was no guarantee unless they tested it. Approval had been garnered by Dr. Pelletier for tests on humans, though they were careful to not include the very grotesque failures their trials had brought forth at this stage.

Particularly, they targeted the lower middle class; those that wished to steer clear of Finkton but couldn't afford anything else. They needed short term and long term experiments, and while they were certain they would draw the sickly, those in the pink would no doubt flock for free handouts and act as the control.

Their barge pilot, Mr. Thompson once again, brought them to the docks of H. Mulligan District. The irony of its namesake and the large Irish population was not lost on him. Here, the class divide could be noticed in the stench of the narrow streets, the simplicity and overcapacity of homes, the diversity of skin and hair, the lack of variety in cloth and needlework. This was his world once, a balance of rent, living, equipment, and pouring all his funds into his work as he struggled to find a patron and conduct his experiments. Rosalind had only seen his home; not how he bargained, how he fought for money, how he lived.

Mr. Thompson came over to the them, sparing him an explanation of his change in mood to Rosalind, and Robert helped him unload the two crates to the empty shop kiosk that they had rented.

"As always, we appreciate your help very much, Mr. Thompson," Rosalind said, leading the way.

"You're always very welcome, ma'am," he said. "Sure you'll be fine here?" His hard gray eyes scanned the buildings.

She smiled. "Don't worry. I have Robert."

Robert gave him a reassuring nod, but Mr. Thompson expression was one that hinted he would answer to him if something were to happen to Rosalind.

Mr. Thompson had a unique respect for her since she'd first arrived in America, he'd learned. Somehow he had demonstrated his prowess when they were implementing the Lutece particle into barges, despite having only one arm. When City Planning had decided on the necessity of a fleet of barges, Rosalind had been the one to insist that the disabled British seaman had the experience and improvisation they needed to train others. Since then, he had become their personal barge pilot, unblinking to whatever request they had.

"Two o'clock then," she said.

Mr. Thompson nodded. "I'll take a walk, ma'am."

Robert watched him leave, keeping his eyes on his dark peacoat, feeling as if he'd lose him to the crowd if he looked away.

"I can count on you, yes? Or shall we call him back?" she joked while setting up their chalkboard easel.

"You've taken quite earnestly to a new role for me."

"I'm quite aware of how capable I am. How capable we are."

She wrote on the board, her lettering neat and bold. He in turn dusted off the counters and seats.

"You've never seen me fight." He wondered briefly how she might react to his fights, the blood and brawls. Probably in the same manner as his spells, with perhaps more scolding.

"And neither have you seen me," she countered. "We shall have to compare our skills."

Robert gave her an odd look, and she rolled her eyes. "Nothing so barbaric as punches—in that, you would most certainly have the upper hand. I mean swordplay."

He arched an eyebrow. That certainly would be interesting. "A duel?"

Perhaps she detected the intrigue in his voice, but she paused her work and had that coy expression she reserved for topics of particular interest. "How else would we compare ourselves?"

They had done every comparison there is, except the obvious. They had not stood shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, measured her curves to his angles. If the width of his shoulders was balanced by the width of her hips. If the spaces and gaps between them filled and fitted perfectly—

"—Something on your mind, brother?"

Robert let his gaze settle on her for a moment. "Are you not always filling my mind with your immensity?"

She was always there; unbidden, persuasive, persistent. Dominant.

She canted her head slightly, looking almost pained. "Always?"

When his mind was muddled, still stitching and reconstructing from the collision of her and him, he thought he was her. Or in the throes of a terrible spell, he believed she was some manifestation of his own mind. Or when he learned to accept her presence, he knew it to be a confluence; a conjugation of minds.

But now, as he existed as two minds in one body, he thought only of how to complete the symmetry in that. Two bodies, one mind, a principle of classical physics; planets and moons revolving, binary stars orbiting, atomic particles balancing.

He believed this universe worked against him. It endeavored to compel him to her, cleave them into one flesh as the particles that constructed her were the same as his, so all that remained, all that he felt he needed for his recovery was to know.

He wanted to know her; to know if her fingers pressed into flesh with the same tension, if her blood flushed under her skin in the same ruddy bloom, if every freckle clustered in the same constellations across her shoulders. If a final joining of self and body would complete them or collapse them into singularity.

He thought of Milton's Paradise Lost. Can it be a sin to know? Can it be death?

"It is not always so unpleasant," he said. "Most of it is quite lovely."

Rosalind blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the comment.

Robert realized in that moment that perhaps she'd never been described as such.

She regained her composure but there remained a ruminative look about her face. "That thought is yours alone, brother."

"Well, it's finally come to it, then," he said. "I'm talking to myself."

She gave him a smile as measured as his, and he stiffly returned back to setting up.

Not often did she make the distinction of their separate, individual minds, but on the occasion she did, the divergence was rooted in their lack of discussion of an issue. This familiarity with oneself, this most obvious divergence in body, was never fully discussed, because with them, theories had to be tested, repeated. Every connection, from the first tear and touch, was measured, calculated, addressed at length, lest the universe collapse at the impossible existence.

There were so many unknowns, but even with that, Rosalind was always the first to press her hand in his, to whisper "cross over," to state that she thought her other self to be marvelous. In their dichotomy, he was their subtlety as much as she was their candor. She possessed an intuition, an impulse that he did not. Where he was cautious, she was discerning; where he polite, she was forthright. The nature of their gender roles in society had shaped that. He did not mind that she was always the first to act, to question, to consider, but this chemistry, this gravitation, this two-body problem, was no longer a subject he could remain uncertain about.

He paused as he wiped down the counter, catching glimpse of her steadily preparing for their work today.

In this matter, he would be her, because he was her. And she was him. And they had remained separate for too long. Amidst the crates, she felt his eyes, felt his thoughts, perhaps, and held his gaze for a moment until the chatter of their gathering audience outside the kiosk returned them to their tasks.

Robert pushed aside the issue for later and refocused.

When he was finished wiping the counters, which took a bit of time to get up to his standards, he set about preparing the ledger and check vouchers. Volunteers will be compensated with vouchers that bore their signature and letterhead and cash them at the bank. That was it on his end. Primarily he would be accessing and questioning them about their state of health or current ailments and send them back to Rosalind who would administer the infusion in appropriate dosages.

Rosalind's job was a bit more particular and required delicacy. The shop kiosk came equipped with a private room, usually for storage, but for their purposes, it offered privacy for volunteers as well as any possible incidents. It was also at her discretion to prescribe dosages for short or long term effect on healthy, injured, or the infirm.

Bringing a crate in, he went to check on her and see if she needed any help, but he found her stoking the small fireplace inside, a small privacy screen already prepared.

"Ta," she said, appreciating his delivery. She inspected the vials once more and smiled.

"All set up front."

She nodded. "Good. Shall we get started then?"

He slipped into his usual posturing next to her. "As always, I take your lead."

She made as if to comment but thought against it and headed out.

Together, they walked to the front of the kiosk, the handful of onlookers now a sizable crowd of people arriving at the appointed time. His mood lifted. They should, if all went well, get good results this morning.

Even before they stood face to face with the crowd, there were whispers of surprise at their presence.

'Madame Lutece!' 'Yes, I think that's him.' 'Blimey, I didn't think it'd actually be her.'

She was known city-wide, from Columbia's founder to its lowest worker. The Great Madame who lifted the city. He was merely an extension of her, a rumored visitor that had not been seen too often since his arrival, yet their name precluded them in any setting.

"Good Morning," she started, that expression of dominance about her face again. Robert was always amused how Rosalind never simply greeted someone. "I assume you're all here because you've read our flyers."

There were nods, some even holding the flyers themselves.

"Very good. This clinic intends to be mutually beneficial. We have stabilized a tonic that hints to improve one's health. Today seeks to find a proper dosage and indeed find the limitations of ailments it can affect. For those of you that are ill, we commend your courage to step out and join us."

Robert surveyed the crowd, a mix of healthy and otherwise. Most wore their best clothes, even those who looked normally confined to house. Compensation drew many out for want or need, but it was hope that caused ailing workers and worried mothers to seek any form of help; hope that something would lessen the pain and suffering. And if Madame Lutece could put a city in the sky, maybe certainly she'd be able to cure the sick.

"For those of you in the pink, we thank you for your participation, and for those merely curious, please step aside until you are certain you wish to participate. We're not here to entertain or waste time, neither are those who have made an effort to leave their homes in pain, here to suffer among those that would gawk."

A few people looked around to see who would step aside but everyone continued to listen with rapt attention, even if he was certain English was not their first language.

"There is a slight risk involved. If that gives you qualms, you will not be judged should you wish to decline participation at any step of the process."

This crowd, despite their class, did not interrupt her.

"If you please, gather yourselves into an orderly line and proceed to Robert at the counter. There you will sign a waiver form and answer some general questions about health and family history. Once you've completed that step, he will issue a voucher, and direct you to the examination line. I will call your name and administer the tonic to you in private, after which I will stamp your voucher. Depending on your circumstance, we may ask if you'd like to participate in further studies. Is that clear?"

She glanced around, expecting questions, but also expecting the crowd to have understood. It was simple enough, this crowd knew of standing in lines and receiving handouts or information in such a manner.

"Good," she continued. "Then let's begin." She nodded to Robert and he went to the counter, ready to take the first volunteer.

Robert offered the woman a smile and explained the process in short. "A bit of questions first and then the waiver, Ma'am." Age, gender, family ancestry, profession, ailment, and current treatment, if any, were what they sought.

She was middle aged, American with German ancestry, a baker by profession, in generally good health, and suffering from Willan's lepra for several years, with a treatment of Fowler's Solution when she could afford it. Additionally, he asked specific questions like known allergies to dittany, valerian, and importantly, any blood illnesses. They would take no chance after what happened with the rabbits.

The woman signed the waiver, and he handed her a voucher. He passed along her information to Rosalind who was waiting.

She glanced over the information and beckoned her to follow. "Ms. Moore, please come with me." Rosalind shared a glance with him. This was the first test.

They had chosen to put up flyers and have volunteers from people capable of making choices. Rosalind was very particular they come of their own accord, their own choice. Fink gave the illusion of it; a kestrel picking mice in a field—Rosalind's words.

But even with that, he was acutely aware he may very well be choosing people to suffer, perhaps even die. Even more, he was struck with the reality that perhaps Rosalind was doing these tests for him, that she would disregard the lives of others to ensure his survival and improvement.

He returned his attention, most of it, back to the crowd and his next volunteer.

"What's your ailment, sir?"

"Nothing. Fit as a horse, Mr. Lutece."

Robert looked the young man over.

"You wanted healthy volunteers, right?" He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I couldn't understand the other half of the poster but if you'll have me—"

"—Of course," Robert smiled politely. "Any known allergies?"

"Don't think so."

"Excellent," he reassured. He gathered his other information. "Now, Mr. Smith, if you'd like to continue, you'll have to sign the waiver."

As Robert figured, Timothy, a millworker at barely twenty years old, possessed little literacy, so he highlighted the finer parts of the waiver. Taking another look at the line, he prepared himself for more instances of simplifying the language than not. Yes, this area had a larger statistic of literacy than Finkton, but it was not by much.

He smiled again at Timothy and directed him to the waiting area. "Rosalind will call you when she's ready."

Robert cast a curious glance at the door, not having heard any sort of commotion. The initial test must have gone well. As if on cue, the door opened and Ms. Moore left. Rosalind made eye contact with him and smiled. So it had gone well.

She took the next volunteer's information and escorted him into the room. It was a decent system with the two of them and he was determined to improve it. By his estimation, there were about two hundred people, and he put on his best charm and concentration and set to work.

He compiled data as he knew to do, adjusting his method of operation and delivery until it was streamlined. Very quickly he discovered more about his demographic. The distinction between Finkton and Mulligan District could be found in the accents and distinct lack of color.

Despite the hour, there were still many in line who were able-bodied and capable of work, which they had accounted for in the amount of compensation. Most of that group were men. The rest, if they weren't ill themselves—a group that was equal parts male and female—were largely women with their sickly children. And though he was no physician, the ailments they were encountering would provide ample amounts of research. As much as there were lacerations, broken bones, there were many that had names: palsy, arthritis, fickle thyroid, ulcers, both forms of diabetes; many that were generalized: disorder of the menses, of the bowel, of the lungs, fatigue, ailments of the heart; and others that could not be determined or were in conjunction with many others.

There were a small collection of ailments that occurred only after arriving in the city, including those still adjusting to the altitude, which was a good consideration of data.

Rosalind accessed his notes, took volunteers to the room, and gave them a dose. With each successful test, his worry lessened, but didn't fully disappear. Until they determined short and long term effects, he couldn't allow himself to relax.

A younger boy approached the counter, sixteen perhaps? Regardless, Robert greeted him. "What's your ailment?" he asked, beginning to number the check voucher. When the boy didn't answer, Robert glanced up, catching him eyeing the paper. Robert paused.

"Uh, me arm hurts," the boy answered, favoring an arm that had been perched across the counter.

"All the time or just when you move it?"

"Most of the time," he mumbled.

"Describe the type of pain."

"It's like a pain all over—"

"—Dull or sharp? An ache or stab?"

"Er, both."

Robert put his pen down impatiently and exhaled. "You are aware this could harm you? Severely, if you don't give me correct information? I can list you as healthy. There's no difference in compensation."

The boy huffed indignantly at being called on his lie. "It hurts."

"Very well," he sighed. Rosalind would deal with him.

The door to the room opened and she came out, glancing at the clipboard prepared. "Follow me please."

Robert went back to his work, preparing the next volunteer. They had discussed the issue of Fink perhaps finding out, or indeed, anybody simply curious looking to make some penny off their research. Rosalind was a much better judge of men than he was and most others did not feign ailments such as the ones they were seeing today.

As he walked the volunteer through the waiver, there was a small commotion in the line about five people down. Someone had fallen, and it wasn't clear if it was a scuffle or an ailment until a man carrying a small boy rushed forward to the counter and a woman quickly attended to him.

"Please, sir," she asked, an Irish lilt in her plea. "He has fits."

At the same time, the door to the room opened out and Rosalind's voice was terse as she commanded the volunteer out. "What did I say about wasting time?"

Were there not an ill child, he would have been amused, but Rosalind quickly detected the situation and asked, "What's the matter?"

"He's fitting."

"Please, Madame," the woman, presumably the boy's mother, implored her.

They both looked at the ashen child, his red hair matted to his forehead; tiny in the man's arms. The fit seemed to have passed, but he still remained limp. Robert was struck with a familiarity of the situation, but before he could place it, Rosalind ushered them to the room.

"Bring him here," she said.

She held his gaze for a moment, and briefly, the sharp scrutiny she usually possessed was replaced with an another. It was gone just as quickly, and she nodded at him to continue with the process of volunteers.

Robert returned to the counter, trying to place her expression. He rubbed at his left temple.

"Everything alright, sir?"

He meant to answer that yes, it was just a headache, realizing a moment later that the question was not directed at him.

Attempting a smile that resembled more of a grimace, he pushed aside his memory of Rosalind. Her expression, which he now recognized to be the one she had when his dissonance occurred, threatened to cause one. And certainly, now was not the time a spell should occur if.

"Nothing to worry about, sir," Robert reassured and directed the volunteer to the waiting area. By the time Rosalind emerged from the room, his headache had waned, and there were three people queued.

"How fares the boy?" he asked, not looking up from his writing.

Beside him, Rosalind too did not look away from the clipboards neatly arranged for her. "Recovering."

He crossed and dotted his letters, pausing mid-notation. "Any effect?"

"Difficult to say at this point in time, but it looks promising."

"Excellent."

He continued with his work. They would, of course, discuss all the results after this, but it was heartening to hear that their experiment was fruitful. He glanced at the remainder of the line, roughly twenty-five people. Not a problem.

Despite the slight backup, he and Rosalind resumed their pace, finishing within the hour. At the last volunteer, Rosalind showed no sign of weariness, merely glancing over the clipboard and nodding at the older gentleman who presented with a fever.

"Mr. Henderson? This way if you please."

She led him into the room, pausing before she entered to give Robert a smile. He smiled in return. The door closed and Robert allowed himself a yawn.

He forgot how exhausting it was working with people in experiments. They did not have to maintain appearances with machines. Flasks and generators weren't loud and questioning, chalkboards and journals did not make idle chatter or smell of alcohol, but, he admitted the opportunity to get results such as these did not come easily or often.

Flipping through the ledger, he earmarked the entire day's entries, satisfied with the quantity. He was sure Rosalind would be too. December and all its…challenges, seemed so distant. That feeling was sometimes rooted in his dissonance. Two minds, two lifetimes, often that made for a full head or displaced sense of time dilation.

There wasn't much cleanup they had to do. On his end, there were papers, the ledger, clipboards. He gathered them and placed them in a now empty crate. As he rearranged them, ensuring their data was protected in a folio, he heard the door to the room open. Rosalind gave her closing remarks to Mr. Henderson, but then—

"—Mr. Henderson, there's no need for that—"

Robert rushed to the room. He was unsure of what to expect but he did not expect that.

"You understand I'm not a practicing physician?" Rosalind said irritably. Mr. Henderson was angled to the door, his trousers around his ankles.

"Please, Madame—"

"—Sir, explain yourself," Robert said. How dare the man expose himself to her. Under no circumstances should that ever need to happen.

Rosalind held up her hand to stop him, but he still moved to stand near her. It was only when he was closer that he saw the man shaking, his knuckles white from clenching.

"Two months and the doctor's treatment has done nothing."

Robert glanced at Rosalind who studied the man and his genitals with her usual clinical detachment. She pursed her lips, a sure sign of her analysis. "Very well. I'll have to adjust the dosage then."

She moved to the crates and selected three more vials as Mr. Henderson gingerly bent to pickup up his trousers and make himself decent again.

"Twice a day for three days. Record any results," she said. "Including sexual. Changes in urges, duration." She made adjustments on her clipboard. "Any issues with impotence or sterility?"

"Before this, no. And I've no children."

"Then if there isn't anything else, we're done."

"Thank- you Madame, thank- you." Mr. Henderson nodded.

Robert watched him leave before observing Rosalind still making notations. She hardly blinked at the interaction, taking in a man's impropriety with apathy and indifference. It stirred up feelings within him that he did not know the source. Not earlier, he had considered that perhaps she might have some interest in intimacy but just as often, she observed him with the same detachment and scrutiny as a stranger. The issue of sterility also struck him.

Certainly, this was not the first time a man had approached her with solutions regarding his impotence. The image of Comstock—he was unsure if it was imagination or her memory—played in his mind's eye and it infuriated him.

"Did he approach you like that? Brandish his cock so brazenly?"

She glanced up from the clipboard, an eyebrow raised at his tone. "Nothing like that. He was very discreet, and as you saw, in much pain and discomfort."

"There are other ways."

She studied him for a moment before continuing. "I suspect an infection of the urinary tract, but we shall see if our infusion has other side effects with vitality. It would be beneficial to consider it as an aid in men's health."

"How do you mean?" he said, his annoyance still not fully under his control.

Rosalind looked at him interestingly. "False modesty does not become you, brother. Have you not approached me the same way?"

He huffed, feeling his face grow warm. "When I was half mad and believed I was a woman."

The corner of her mouth quirked. "You must know I'm teasing, brother. Surely you haven't forgotten the numerous times I've brought your hand to your cock to help you remember."

"I haven't."

Yes, he certainly hadn't, but that was to aid him in his recovery after crossing over, to help him recognize himself through comparison, no different than their comparisons of bone structure, definition of jaws, or taste in music.

"Haven't you?"

He forced himself to meet her eyes again.

"Despite that women are seen as vessels of childbirth, defined by their biology, men apparently need an extra appendage to define their existence." In contrast to her words, she smiled at him and touched his jaw. "Chin up. Your existence is defined by much more."

"You'd think after so much toil and progress we'd be done, but there is still so much more work that must follow," Rosalind said, scanning through the other line she stopped to verify with her notations.

"You could say that of every day."

She paused to smile and hum in agreement briefly. "Tempus fugit."

As he knelt next to the table, Robert glanced up from his unpacking. Classics again? He smiled, appreciating the challenge. "…Time flees irretrievably while we wander around, prisoners of our love of detail."

"Full marks, brother," she said.

"Only rarely must you put up with my occasional bouts of drivel."

"Perhaps," she said, returning her attention to the notes again. "But I've grown accustomed talking to myself, and that is never drivel."

He considered the openness of her appreciation, how much more candid her comments were as of late. What he had concluded he would do.

Legs crossed, she sat on the edge of the table from which she continued her data comparison. Robert glanced up at her, boot to blooming dress bustle. Soft, contemplative pout at the corners of her mouth to the cool sidelong glance as she peered inquisitively at his sudden attention.

Perhaps she already knew what he was going to do, but he straightened to his full height and walked to the phonograph to set a record. He felt that her gaze followed him across the room and after he dropped the needle, he turned to meet her eyes.

Music was their connector; the quickest, surest way for them to return to the same mind. Connect in the eyes, no matter what the feet do.

He offered his hand. Setting the journal down, she took it without question, stepping to him and assuming a follower position, but when he laced their fingers, her expression became unreadable.

Still, she canted her head slightly to peer at his face.

"Our thesis, our cornerstone, revolved around a particle," he stated, perhaps incorrectly. It was not a particle, but the particle; hydrogen.

She hummed her acknowledgement. "Yes, go on."

"We know this particle to be that which we draw our understanding of classical mechanics and the basis of quantum mechanics." He was restating a known principle, but he could only describe the unknown with what he knew. "That in determining the motion of two bodies that interact only with one another, we can understand the mutual bonds that appear within this universe."

She studied his jaw a moment and then peered over his shoulder. "The two-body problem has always been the foundation of the Lutece particle. Undoubtedly, it's how we connected through between universes. I would not have you were it not for that."

Now he fell silent a moment, unsure if she already had figured out what he was trying to address. "It's, er, been a year since I've been here."

"A good year," she murmured.

"Yes, my best," he admitted.

"And?" She looked at him again. "Do you wish to go back?"

He smiled. "No, nothing like that. I have everything I need here."

"Then what? Oh dear," she said sardonically, perhaps to hide that she had been worried. "Have you become…sentimental?"

He frowned at the word and their unbelief of it. "Are you going to let me finish?"

"Perhaps. That is dependent on what you are going to discuss."

He slid his hand that rest on the small of her back lower to the top of her buttocks and pressed her flush to him. "I want to discuss this," he insisted, peering down into her face.

"Oh," she breathed, momentarily winded by the proximity. At this distance, he could see how the blood rushed through her cheeks. "So do I."

They had halted their steps and he started their waltz again. "I have always been comfortable with you. Never uncomfortable. You?"

"The same."

"So, you'll understand that lately, and…quite often now, when I touch you, think of you, I'm not uncomfortable, only unsure. I suppose by nature, I am still a Gentleman."

"And I, a Lady." Her mouth was a wry smile.

He exhaled noisily and looked away. "You are not so very subtle or withholding in your curiosity," he said testily.

Her hand moved from his shoulder to rest on his cheek and she smiled coquettishly. "It is our best quality."

"So," he began again, tongue rolling over his lips to moisten them, "What shall we do about it?"

"Oh," she said, returning her hand to his shoulder once more, "I should like to believe we confirm exactly what curious touches and thoughts bring about, don't you, brother?"

"A gentleman never speaks of such things."

Rosalind rolled her eyes. "Oh, go on, then,"

"Yes," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. "I should like to discover our similarities and…compare our differences." He lowered his voice, angled his mouth to her ear. "In the way that you are your own, and I am mine."

Her ears flushed but she showed no other sign of his effect. "I don't think we should force it. Do you?"

"No. We should let it happen, naturally. At its own pace."

"Like a waltz," she said, that same coquettish smile on her lips again, and they both laughed softly.

"Yes. Like a waltz."