[ The look Bastien aims back up at him is, first, one of unhidden melancholy; then his mouth twists with a sheepish little smile, to be caught that way. And from there a wider smile, brightening in spite of himself, because he can't look Byerly in his beautiful eyes without feeling lucky and pleased and like nothing is really that dire. It can't be, if he has this. ]

Sulking, [ he admits, ] because I love it. The excitement, I mean, not sulking. I hate sulking. All of this week's evidence to the contrary.