Aunt Sochla’s brows went up. ‘That does surprise me. I’ve never yet encountered a dog that could not be trained out of bad habits, even under the most challenging of circumstances. Where is the creature?’

‘Sochla,’ murmured my mother, ‘now is not the time for this.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said my aunt. ‘Have the dog brought to me in the morning, Oran. I’ll set it to rights.’

‘Thank you, Aunt,’ I said. ‘If you can spare the time, your help will be most welcome.’ I did not mention that, with me, Bramble was perfectly well behaved. Or that the little dog had become a favourite with all who worked in my kitchen. That would be to imply that the fault lay with Flidais.

‘I don’t suppose there’ll be a great deal for me to do as a chaperone,’ Aunt Sochla said, ‘since you are surely old enough to know how to behave. So you may as well make use of my services with the dog. The terriers I breed are much sought after as companions for ladies, largely because of their sweet temperament.’

‘Thank you, Aunt.’ It was true, Aunt Sochla’s residence was generally swarming with little dogs, and I could not remember any of them snapping, barking or leaving puddles in inconvenient spots. ‘Bramble is not to be taken outdoors without a leash. She’s been lost on the farm once already, and of course there are bigger dogs –’

‘Oran, don’t fuss. I know what I am doing. Tomorrow, after breakfast.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’ I might have been ten years old again, and receiving a reprimand for daydreaming.

‘Flidais is so like her portrait.’ Mother patted my hand, adding to my feelings of inadequacy. ‘I’m becoming convinced that you have made a wise choice, Oran.’

That was the moment, I believe, when I first felt the pangs of true misgiving. Somehow, oddly, Flidais’s perfect demeanour tonight, her grace and apparent confidence, only served to emphasise the times when her behaviour had seemed odd. Words were on the tip of my tongue, words I could not speak: She looks like her portrait, yes. But this is not the woman I thought I would be marrying. That woman would have known Lucian’s Bestiary the moment she opened the cover. That woman would have received Bramble’s love and trust even in the most trying times. That woman would have loved and wanted me, yes. But she would never have crept into my bed before we were husband and wife. That I had allowed it to happen, that I had acquiesced to it was my shame. Even as I had enjoyed what she’d offered so generously, I had wondered at a certain lack of . . . of tenderness. Of gentleness. Of sweet words to accompany the pleasures of the body. Our coupling had not been as I might have expected. That had only added to my confusion.

‘Oran?’