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The parenthetical lines bracketing his mouth deepened. Late afternoon light cast his features in a softened haze. His hair appeared burnished copper in the cozy dimness. “Try.”

“Honestly, I don’t remember.” I was incredibly proud of my nonchalant tone. “If you haven’t noticed, my sketchbook is filled with such illustrations.I ought to do a better job of taking notes, but I forget. Why the sudden interest in the gate?”

“It’s not something I’ve seen around too much.”

His carefully worded reply didn’t escape my notice.

“But you have seen it. Somewhere.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You certainly did,” I countered.

“Well, I can’t stop you from thinking that,” he snapped. “Inez, this is important. Tell me where you’ve seen thisparticulargate.”

“Only if you tell me the significance.”

Whit clenched his jaw. “I can’t.”

“Because my uncle wouldn’t wish it.”

“You think so?” he asked, his chestnut brows climbing to his hairline. “That’s quite an assumption.”

We stared at each other, a line drawn between us. I had stumbled onto something, I knew it. What I couldn’t decide was how Whit truly felt about it. If he wanted me to figure out something that my uncle was deliberately keeping from me.

Then it hit me.

“I understand,” I said in a hush. “You won’t outwardly disobey my uncle.”

“Did it ever occur to you that he might want to protect your feelings? Maybe the details would upset you.” He tugged at his wayward hair, clearly torn over what to say to me. “The essentials are the same, Olivera. Your parents are both gone, and nothing you discover will change any of that.”

“So the gate has something to do with my parents.” I ground my teeth in frustration. Annoyance built inside me, one brick at a time. I understood Whit had a job to do, but right now, he stood in the way of the answers I desperately wanted—no,the ones I needed. This was about my family, information on what had happened to them.

How theydied.

“Are you always so good at following orders?” I asked bitterly.

He straightened away from me, his blue eyes lit with an anger I’d never seen. “As a matter of fact, I am not.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“You don’t know anything about me. I’vekeptit that way.”

“I know enough,” I countered.

“Listen, you fool—”

“Not five minutes ago you said I was smart.”

“You don’t know me,” he repeated, furious, raising his voice to speak over me. “You don’t know the things I’ve done. You asked me once if I was in the British military—I’m not.” He leaned forward, his face inches away from mine. “Would you care to know why?”

I stubbornly remained silent.

“I was dishonorably discharged,” he said in a frigid voice I didn’t recognize. I’d seen him exasperated and impatient, furious and aloof. But he’d never sounded so coldly detached. Not even once. “You know your way back to the campsite, don’t you?”

“Whit—”

“Mr. Hayes, if you don’t mind,” he said with some of his former asperity. “Let’s observe proper etiquette.”