Sophie was innocent. More innocent, perhaps, that a sixteen-year-old girl should have been. But the summer the boarder came would prove to be the end of her innocence.

The day he arrived she had stood at the top of the stairs while he exchanged pleasantries with her father. He had looked up at her smiling, and she blushed.

Dinner had been a timid affair. He sat opposite her at the table, her father at the head.

"So you're studying here, Mr. Peterson?"

"Yes – starting this September. I decided to come in August to get settled in."

"What are you studying?"

"Politics – my PhD."

"Well, it's a great school; my alma mater, you know?"

"Really? What did you major in?"

"Physics."

The boarder smiled and nodded. His eyes flickered towards Sophie and she blushed deeply, again, averting her gaze.

"So what's your name?" he asked gently.

"Sophie." She answered, looking up tentatively only to lower her gaze quickly.

"So are you at high school?"

"Yes – she's starting Junior year this August."

Sophie had opened her mouth to speak, and closed it disappointedly as her father cut across her.

"Where did you do your undergraduate?" Her father continued.

"Corpus Christi, Oxford."

Her father raised his eyebrows in surprise, "And where did you say you were from, again?"

"Coventry." The stranger answered, smiling. His eyes seemed to drop as he said it. He looked up again to see Sophie had been staring at him, and upon her eyes meeting his hers fell once more to the floor.

Sophie was fascinated by the boarder – his accent and background were completely foreign to her. The clothes he wore, the books he read – everything was different. His glasses – he was the picture of an intellectual, sitting in the corner of their bedroom and reading.

They didn't have a TV. Her father said that a television would corrupt her; and maybe he was right. Peterson didn't mind, he mainly sat in the corner and read.

One day the two of them were sitting there together when he asked, "What are you reading?"

"Pride and Prejudice."

"Ah – Austen. Do you like that sort of literature? The Bronte sisters and all that?"

Sophie blushed, "Yeah…"

"Yes, I think you mean. Do try to speak properly, dear." He smiled at her, and looked away, and Sophie went bright red, "I mean-"

He laughed to himself and put down his book, "I was only teasing."

"So what does your father do?"

"He…he works for the government."

"Really? What sort of things does he do?"

"I…I'm not allowed to say." Sophie said quietly.

The boarder laughed, and said casually, "Well, he's hardly building the A bomb, is he? But I suppose everything's a secret in America nowadays."

Sophie blushed once more, embarrassed.

The boarder smiled again, and turned back to his book.

Peterson spent a lot of time in his room. He wasn't exactly sociable. Sophie in many ways lacked the courage to talk to him, but when she managed to muster enough bravado to do so he humored her.

Sophie had certainly developed a juvenile crush; Peterson was completely aware of it and did nothing to encourage it without being harsh to the girl. She was certainly pretty; that much was certain. But the fact remained that she was too young, too naïve, too American.

One day the boarder decided to go out. He went out extremely rarely; once her father had taken him out to a restaurant. Sophie hadn't been allowed to come.

Sophie didn't know what possessed her that day; perhaps her curiosity got the better of her.

She opened the door to his bedroom, and began to have a look around. He was neat; very neat. Several political theory books lined his shelves – all were too dense for Sophie's interests.

Tentatively she eased open a drawer – underwear. She continued down the chest of drawers until she came to one full of papers. They were mainly political essays, correspondence, that sort of thing. One caught her notice. It was written in Russian, with what she assumed was Soviet insignia at the head.

She could feel her heart begin to beat faster, and a nervous sweat broke out over her body. Folding the letter she stuffed it into the pocket on the front of her dress, replaced the papers, and darted from his room back to her bedroom.

Sitting in her bedroom, Sophie surveyed the letter she had taken – her interest was piqued. She longed to read what the letter said, just so she could know, what it meant, whom it was from, and whom it was for.