He points at the floor, to the lattice of sunlight that makes the stone glow as if lit from within. “Light,” he says. “The Enlightenment was literally all about light.”

“Who was the architect?”

“Christopher Wren. The tourists flock to St. Paul’s, but this is his masterpiece.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.

When Edward phoned earlier there’d been no reference to the suddenness with which he’d left my bed a week ago, no small talk. Just, “I’d like to show you some buildings, Jane. Do you want to come?”

“Yes,” I’d said without hesitation. It isn’t that I’ve decided to ignore Mia’s warnings completely. But if anything, they’ve only made me more curious about this man.

And I’m reassured by the fact that he’s brought me here today. Why would he do that if he was only attracted to me because of a fleeting physical resemblance to his dead wife? I have to embrace the parameters he’s set for us, I’ve decided: to take each moment as it comes, and not burden our relationship with overthinking or expectation.

From St. Stephen’s we go to John Soane’s house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. A notice says it’s closed to the public today but Edward rings the bell and greets the curator by name. After some friendly discussion, we’re invited to come in and wander as we please. The tiny house is stuffed with artifacts and curiosities, everything from fragments of Greek sculpture to mummified cats. I’m surprised Edward likes it, but he says mildly, “Just because I build in one particular style doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate others, Jane. Excellence is what matters. Excellence and originality.”

From a chest in the library he pulls out an architectural drawing of a small neoclassical temple. “This is good.”

“What is it?”

“The mausoleum he built for his dead wife.”

I take the drawing and pretend to study it, but actually I’m thinking about that word mausoleum.

I’m still considering the implications as we get a taxi back to One Folgate Street. As we approach I look at the house with new eyes, making connections with the buildings we’ve seen.

At the door, he holds back. “Do you want me to come in?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to seem as if I’m taking that part for granted. You do understand, don’t you, that this works two ways?”

“That’s sweet of you. But I really do want you to come in.”

THEN: EMMA

Where are we going? I say as Edward hails a cab.

Walbrook, he says, as much to the driver as me. Then: I want to show you some buildings.

Despite all my questions, he refuses to say more until we pull up in the middle of the City. We’re surrounded by spectacular modern buildings, and I wonder which we’re going to. But instead he steers me toward a church. It seems out of place here in the middle of all these gleaming banks.

The interior is nice, if a bit unexciting. There’s a big dome overhead, with the altar directly underneath, a great slab of rock plonked in the middle of the floor. It makes me think of pagan circles and sacrifices.

Before the Great Fire there were two sorts of churches, he says. Dark Gothic ones, and the plain meetinghouses where the Puritans worshipped. After the fire, the men who rebuilt London saw an opportunity to create a new, hybrid style. But they knew they had to replace all that Gothic gloom with something.

He points at the floor, where the big clear-glass windows throw a crisscross of shadow and sunlight.

Light, he says. The Enlightenment was literally all about light.

While he walks around looking at things I clamber up onto the altar rock. I fold my legs under me and lean backward, arching my back until my neck touches stone. Then I do a few more poses: the bridge, the upward bow, the lying hero. I did yoga for about six months and I’ve still got all the moves.

What are you doing? Edward’s voice says.

Offering myself for ritual sacrifice.

That altarpiece is by Henry Moore, he says disapprovingly. He sourced the stone from the same quarry Michelangelo used.

I bet he had sex on it.

I think it’s time to go, Edward says. I’d hate to be banned from this particular church.

We get a taxi to the British Museum. He speaks to someone at the admissions desk, a red rope is lifted, and somehow we’re in a part of the museum reserved for academics. An assistant unlocks a cabinet and leaves us to it. Put these on, Edward says, handing me some white cotton gloves and pulling on a pair himself. Then he reaches into the cabinet and takes out a stone object.

This is a ritual mask made by the Olmec people. The first civilization in America to build cities. They were wiped out three thousand years ago.

He hands the mask to me. I take it, scared I’ll drop it. The eyes are almost alive.

It’s amazing, I say. In truth, it isn’t really my kind of thing and this isn’t my kind of place, any more than the church was, but I’m happy to be here with him.

He nods, satisfied. I make it a rule to only ever look at one thing in a museum, he says as we retrace our steps. Any more, and you can’t appreciate what you’re seeing.

So that’s why I don’t like museums, I say, I’ve just been doing them all wrong.