"I don't like it," I say finally, apropos of nothing else because there's been no other words between us, after we've walked for a while. To assure Puck knows I don't mean her fingers, I shift mine a little, taking her hand a bit more surely. I'm unfamiliar with this. We've only kissed twice, and I'm more sure of reins than hands.

"The weather. Doesn't it rain here?"

Which only reminds me of George Holly, standing in his white shoes in the capaill uisce round pen in the cliff, asking if Thisby was ever not raining.