He never would meet her eye.
Throughout dinner as her mother and his Uncle chatted and then while she served tea he was mostly silent, staring intently at his plate.
His posture was excellent, Song noticed. He sat up straight and stiff, like a Lord, but he tilted his head ever so slightly to his left. His hat obligingly tipped so the right side of his face was cast into shadow.
He's ashamed of his scar.
It was red and angry and stretched across his face, grasping for his hairline.
Fire is so greedy. And Song thought of her leg.