It was a bowl, its rim shaped round into eight curves as if it were a flower opening. Its outer surface had a band round the top, engraved into shapes which gave the impression of leaves and flowers, and the indented parts of it were black. Below the band were even more dainty stripes of black patterning and to each side was fixed a handle, slender as a long, graceful S. She could see immediately that the piece had a rightness of form and dimension, an integration of pattern: sheer perfection.

Margaret did not touch it, but gazed in fascination. Philip came to stand beside her.

‘D’you like it?’

‘It’s . . .’ She struggled to find an adequate word. ‘It’s lovely.’ How do you even begin to make something so exquisite, so perfectly wrought? she wanted to ask. But more prosaically she said, ‘How do you get the patterns black and silver like that?’

Philip Tallis picked the thing up and held it to the light. She wondered how his large hands managed such fine work. For a second she wondered whether it was he that she loved, as a man, or the fact that he made such beautiful things, objects into which he had poured his soul.

‘It’s called niello,’ he said. ‘You make the bowl, obviously. I engraved the patterns and then you apply the inlay – it’s a mixture of sulphides: copper, silver, lead – and charcoal. So that you have all the light and shade brought out.’

She peered closely at it. ‘It’s so perfect – the shape of it – everything.’

‘I could teach you,’ he said quietly, laying it down. He turned to look at her. ‘I can see you have a feel for it.’

‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘I could never begin to make such a thing!’

‘Why not? You have a good eye – and a good hand, I’m sure. It takes practice, that’s all.’

‘Oh – and something else,’ she said, unable to say what exactly that was. ‘A feeling, I think.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps, yes.’

In the same second, they became aware that they were very close together. Margaret felt as if her flesh had become sensitive all over with a tingling awareness. Philip Tallis reached for her hand and drew her back from the window, which looked out all too close to his workshop on the yard behind. And when they were standing close to the fireplace, in the dim winter light, her heart was running so fast she thought he must be able to hear it. He did not let go of her hand. Shyly, she looked up at him, but he must have seen some other misgiving in her expression.

‘You’re shaking,’ he said. He examined her hand, caressing it lightly. ‘Don’t be frightened of me. You’re not, are you?’ He seemed wounded by the possibility.