While the polite majority had long found ways to make excuses for Zechariah’s tendencies, he had no doubt that those with an eye for it caught it. After all, how many women wanted a man who dressed more flamboyantly than she? Who let his hair out long enough to grasp rather than vanish under a hat? Whose natural cadence was just a touch effeminate?

Zechariah grew more and more tense the more Crane danced around it. If this was how ashamed he was of it – was he ashamed of him, too? He was starting to feel secondhand shame from him. He crossed an ankle over his knee, clasping hands on his leg as he waited to see what answer he might get.

Then, it was out. He liked men. He stopped denying it. Zechariah’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he leaned back into the chair. He let them sit in silence for a moment.

“It looks as though I am still here,” Zechariah pointed out. “Is that all?”