Although Ian didn't believe it at first, Cat was as good as his word. The boy was certainly not like anyone else he'd ever met, completely fearless, yet considerate, almost solicitous. Unlike the other St. Mary's High boys paired with boys from St. Mary's orphanage, he took his partnership with Ian seriously, almost as a duty, thought not a solemn one. He seemed to take great pleasure in fulfilling it. Ian found himself in the novel position of having someone at his side. Whether the activity of the moment was rowing out on the lake or horseback riding through the woods or making wallets in the crafts cabin, Cat would be in his boat or slowing his horse so Ian could catch up or sitting across from him, his hands swiftly and aptly forming the bits and pieces provided into a perfect wallet. Of course, there were times when Cat went off on his own or talked to boys from his own school, but he was a largely constant presence.

The fact that it was someone like Cat who was keeping him company like this was hard to believe. He told himself that Cat would have probably acted the same towards any boy he'd been paired with, but a part of him hoped it was possible that Cat liked him for himself. He seemed to, at least a little. Otherwise, why would he be so nice? Ian barely bothered making efforts to befriend any of the other boys at camp, although there were a few who seemed more like him: quiet boys he probably would have got on well with and who would most likely have become his camp friends under ordinary circumstances. Ian found Cat more interesting, however. He liked to be with him. When would he get another chance to spend so much time with a boy like Cat? He didn't want to waste any of that time with some other boy he might or might not like.

At night, before they went to sleep, Cat would climb up to his bunk and lie beside him. They had the cabin to themselves, so after bedcheck had passed, they could stay up talking as late or as loudly as they wanted. Ian loved lying so close to the other boy, hearing his secrets, telling his own in return. There was something so nice about talking in the dark. He'd never really done it before, anything like this, and surely Cat must like him, or why would he talk to him like this, his laughter soft and low in the darkness.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Ian asked him during one of their late night chats.

There was a pause. Cat had avoided talking of his family in anything more than the most general way, almost as if someone had told him you shouldn't speak to orphans about your family. "Yes," he said finally, decisively. "I have two brothers."

"What are they like?" When he was younger (but not so young that he couldn't remember the time), Ian had created a dream family for himself, with parents and scores of siblings. He'd invented names and personalities and likes and dislikes for them all, and lying in bed at night, he'd imagined all the conversations and adventures he would have had with them, if they'd been real. Of course, that had been a rather childish thing to do, and he didn't do it anymore.

"They're older than me. Tira's crazy, and Adrian just cares about his books. We're not that close or anything."

"Oh, I see," said Ian, feeling disappointed despite himself. People who did have families didn't necessarily get along with them--he knew that well enough. For some reason, he'd wanted to think that Cat had a happy family. But it was foolish to feel upset over the other boy's answer; if he hadn't wanted to know, he shouldn't have asked. "I don't have any siblings." Then, thinking that might have seemed obvious to Cat, he added, "Some of the boys come to the orphanage with their brothers."

"Oh yeah? Makes sense," said Cat. He paused again, as if reflecting, then asked suddenly and certainly, almost as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity to ask the question, waiting for Ian to bring up the subject of families, "What happened to your parents? If it's all right to ask."

Ian felt suddenly strange, hollow, like an object of curiosity rather than a person. His situation might as well have been written on his forehead. Everyone knew he had no parents. He lived in an orphanage. He wondered if Cat felt sorry for him. "It's all right," he said, "but I don't know. I don't know anything about them. I don't even remember them. I was abandoned."

"Yeah?" Cat asked quietly, subdued for once. There was a long silence between them. Ian wondered what Cat was thinking, but he couldn't see the other boy's expression in the near-complete dark, only had a vague impression of his features. He hoped he hadn't made him uncomfortable. When Cat spoke again, however, his voice was its usual easy, brassy self. "What if you could have a brother? Would you want one?"

The question took Ian by surprise. It was almost cruel. The hollow feeling inside him grew. "I--Of course I would, Cat. But I can't."

Cat didn't reply, but bewilderingly stirred himself, and in a moment was descending the ladder from the top bunk to the floor. Ian sat up. He didn't know what Cat could possibly be doing, but he didn't ask; he waited, peering over the side of his bed. There was a light as Cat turned on his flashlight, then he began to rummage through his things. In a few minutes' time, he'd found whatever it is he was looking for, and he was back in bed beside Ian with his lit flashlight in one hand, and in the other, a pocketknife.

"Are we allowed to have those?" asked Ian, confused.

"Not at all."

"What are you doing with it?"

Cat shrugged. Ian could see his face now, by the light of the flashlight. "I've got an idea." He smiled suddenly, an uncharacteristic expression on his face, almost--embarrassment. But hopeful embarrassment. "Maybe you won't like it. We are a little too old, I think..."

It was odd to see Cat appealing to him for approval; it felt like a reversal. Ian wasn't sure what to say. "What's your idea?"

"We could be blood brothers."

"Blood brothers?"

"Yeah, my Papa told me he was once blood brothers with a boy from school, plus I saw it in a movie once."

"You mean, cut ourselves?"

"Just a little," said Cat hurriedly. "Come on, it'll be fun. Want to try?"

Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the unexpectedness of the idea, or maybe it was because he found it strangely nice, that Cat would be willing to do something like that with him, but whatever the reason, he found himself saying, before he was even aware of the word forming on his lips, "Okay."

Cat brightened. "All right! Do you want to go first?"

"Oh--" Ian drew back from the knife as Cat flicked it out. "I don't know if I can cut myself, though." Silly as it was, before agreeing to it, he hadn't really thought through all the implications of the act, such as the knife cutting through his skin. He suppressed a shudder, not wanting to seem afraid.

"No?" Cat paused, considering. The light of the flashlight cast strange shadows across his face. "If you want, I can do it for you." He added, "Don't worry. The knife's sharp. It'll hardly hurt, I promise."

Though inwardly still hesitating, Ian didn't want Cat to think he was worried by the thought of a little cut. "Okay," he said again.

Cat tucked the flashlight beneath his arm, positioning it so that both of them were somewhat illuminated but neither of them blinded. "Give me your hand."

Ian held out his right hand, palm down, and Cat took it in his hands, gently turning it over so the palm faced up, the back of the hand lying in Cat's palm. Ian was suddenly conscious of his heart beating loudly in his ears, as he watched Cat gazing consideringly down at his hand. Cat drew a finger over the heel of Ian's palm. "This should be fine." He readied the knife. Though Ian wanted to look away, he made himself keep watching, trying not to flinch as Cat swept the point across his hand in a swift, decisive motion. He drew the knife back, and Ian saw there was no blood. He wondered if the cut had been deep enough, but in a moment's time, red droplets were welling from the cleft Cat had carved into his skin. He watched the blood, transfixed. As Cat had promised, it hardly hurt.

"Hold it there," said Cat of Ian's bleeding right hand, and holding up his own left hand, the boy sliced a cut into his skin, unhesitatingly: in the heel of the palm, precisely where he'd cut Ian's. He did it so casually, as if he didn't care at all. Ian wondered if Cat was afraid of anything, but his wondering was cut short by Cat's next movement, the boy pressing his hand down on Ian's, the heels of their palms meeting. Cat's fingertips lay on his wrist, and against his own fingertips, Ian could feel the softness of the underside of Cat's wrist. He resisted the sudden, odd urge to move his fingers over Cat's skin, forcing them to remain motionless.

"We have to wait, so it'll take," said Cat, as if he knew everything about it.

Ian nodded, not knowing what to say as a curious heat swept through him, nothing to do with the heat of summer. The sound of his heart beating grew louder in his ears. Each beat of it, he imagined, was pumping more of Cat's blood into his veins, as he held his hand still, waiting for Cat to say that he could move again yet hoping that he never would say it, as the warmth suffusing his body was so pleasurable. He didn't want it to stop.

"Okay, that should be enough," said Cat finally, and drew his hand away.

Ian still didn't know what to say, so he nodded and looked down at his hand, smeared with both their blood.

"You all right?"

Ian glanced up and was a little disconcerted to find Cat so close to him, the boy's eyes--which looked very dark now--fixed upon him intently. "Yes," Ian managed to say. "Yes, I'm fine. Thanks."

There was a trace of what might have been confusion in Cat's voice. It was as unsuited to Cat as the embarrassment he had momentarily displayed earlier. "It didn't hurt too much, did it?"

"No--hardly at all, like you said."

"It might ache a bit in the morning," said Cat, and, without warning, widely yawned.

"I'm sure it'll be all right," said Ian, catching the yawn from the other boy. "We should get to sleep."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. I guess you're right," said Cat. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, and Ian waited, but Cat only said, "Good night."

"Good night," said Ian, his head falling to his pillow as Cat, with his knife and his light, descended to his own bunk. There was a click, and the room dimmed to darkness as the flashlight was turned off. Ian closed his eyes. His heart was still beating in his ears, and he could feel it pounding in his chest, though not as quickly nor as hard as before. The feeling of warmth in his body lingered too. Ian touched a fingertip to the open cut on his palm. They were blood brothers now. That wasn't the same as real brothers, of course, but it was something. It was more than Ian had ever had before. Cat was so strangely sweet to him. He didn't know why that was. Was it just because he was Cat's orphan and Cat was looking after him? But he didn't need that much looking after, even though he was shy. He could take care of himself, more or less, and Cat was only a year older--fourteen, though he could pass for fifteen easily. Ian wished, more than ever before, fervently wished, with his eyes closed tight, that Cat would really like him, like him for himself, like him more than he liked anyone else at camp.

Ian heard nothing from the bunk below. Was Cat already asleep? He didn't know if he could fall asleep, his body felt so odd. He pushed his sheets off, feeling too warm, then pulled them back on, feeling too exposed. And just as he was telling himself he probably wouldn't be able to get to sleep for a while longer, hours maybe, he was conscious of his mind beginning to drift, but not conscious enough to realize that he was falling asleep, so he fell asleep, as he usually did, without realizing it. That night, Ian had a dream. He dreamed he woke up to find Cat had climbed back into bed with him. Cat was touching his hand again, drawing his fingers over Ian's palm, smiling. "It doesn't hurt too much, does it?" he asked Ian. In the dream, Ian's hand hadn't been cut. There was no knife, only Cat's fingers sliding over his skin.

"No, it doesn't hurt, like you said." Ian returned the other boy's smile, shyly. It felt all at once as if he didn't know Cat, was meeting him all over again. He felt nervous, and his palms felt damp, his heart quickening.

Cat was stroking Ian's wrist now, still smiling, and he said, "Your pulse is racing."

The sun had risen, Ian saw. The cabin was full of light, and Cat's eyes looked very purple in the light. "Is it?" he asked timidly.

"Don't worry," said Cat. "You're my brother. I'll take good care of you."

"We're not brothers," protested Ian, although it was difficult to disagree with Cat, everything he said seemed to make so much sense.

"But I like you, Ian." Cat's face was closer to his now. They were lying down together in Ian's bed, and Ian had the urgent sense that if they didn't get to breakfast soon, they were going to get in trouble--they were late, and someone might come looking for them. They'd be caught sleeping together, which would get them in so much trouble. Cat, however, seemed unaware of the danger. He put his arm around Ian's waist, and kissed him. Ian had never been kissed before, and he knew he shouldn't be kissing a boy, but for some reason it felt so good, so he let Cat do it. He let Cat do it, and it made him feel so warm, warm all over his body, but not uncomfortably so: wonderfully hot. He'd let Cat kiss him as much as he wanted, it felt so good--

Ian awoke, gasping as a shudder ran through his body, aware of a wetness on his legs, accompanied by a surge and then an ebbing of pleasure as his body stilled. He sat up at once, alarmed, pressing a careful hand between his legs, feeling the dampness of the fabric of the shorts he'd worn to bed. His palm ached at the contact, and he pulled his hand back, saw the cut on his palm and remembered what had happened last night. Then he remembered precisely what he'd been dreaming about.

No--oh no, he shouldn't have dreamed about Cat like that. It wasn't right. What was wrong with him? And now he felt disgustingly sticky and strange. He had to wash off as soon as possible. He noticed, belatedly, that it was morning. The first faint light of the day was coming in through the windows. It was probably early enough that he could get to the showers before anyone else got there.

Ian hurried down the ladder to the floor, careful not to wake Cat, who was still sleeping, unaware of the dirty things Ian had been dreaming about him. It was so embarrassing--how was he going to be able to talk to the other boy after what had happened? Even if they were blood brothers. Rummaging through the drawers where he'd put his clothes, Ian grabbed some, grabbed a towel, shoved his feet into shoes, and, opening the door as quietly as possible (it was prone to creak if opened too abruptly), slipped outside and made a break for the showers.