It was appreciably a very Aglionby gesture, the patrician clasp of the shoulder, a reminder of who Adam was to Gansey. He smiled and accepted it, mouth twitching again into a smile.

"You might not like the shirts I have," he warned. "None of them are turquoise."

But, he supposed, shirtless Ganseys could not be choosers and his motorcycle didn't care what you wore to see it, so it would be all right.

They would be all right.