‘A woman alone has to learn to protect herself.’

‘There must have been some other way –’

But she was not hearing what he was saying, she seemed snared in some private horror of her own weaving.

‘Do you know what they do to convicted murderers? Don’t believe Girim’s talk of leniency. First they shave your head.’ Her fingers moved up across her skull, touching, caressing her hair. ‘Then they parade you through the streets on a cart with a noose around your neck, to be pelted with mud. Abused. Spat at.’ Her voice had dropped to a monotone. ‘The gallows is on Pasperdu Hill. Haven’t you seen the corpses left to dangle there till they rot?’

‘Oh, Fia, Fia…’ he said, unable to hide the ache in his voice.

‘Just seeing you here, just hearing you call me Fia…’ She nestled against him. ‘No one else ever called me Fia. If only we could go back – if only we could be as we were then.’

He felt the weight of her golden head against his shoulder, the warmth of her body pressed against his. If he shut his eyes, he could remember that distant summer meadow, the dazzle of sunlight, the green smell of crushed grasses as he pulled her down into his arms, the taste of her, sweet yet sharp, like early apples.

‘Help me, Acir,’ she said, mouth moving against the base of his throat. ‘I am so very, very wretched.’

He could not bear to think that beneath this radiantly beautiful shell lay such a void of cynicism and despair.

The shutters blew inwards, gusting rain into the room.

‘A storm!’ Fiammis cried. She ran to the open casement and out on to the balcony, raising her face to the pouring rain. ‘I love storms!’

Lightning lit the dark sky, lit her rain-streaked face, and she flung up her arms as if to welcome it.

‘Are you crazy?’ Acir cried. He went out on to the balcony and caught hold of her as thunder rumbled closer. ‘You could get killed!’

‘But what a magnificent way to die!’ she cried, laughing. ‘Seared by elemental fire!’

‘Come back inside,’ he begged her, pulling her towards him. Suddenly she was in arms and kissing him hungrily as the thunder-rain poured down, drenching them both. And a heat burned through his body like a raging fever as a host of forbidden sensations reawakened.

‘No,’ said Acir, gasping. Her lips were wet and cold, tainted with the bitter thunder-rain, but her tongue tasted sweet. He picked her up in his arms and lifted her back over the sill into the bedchamber.

‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said hoarsely. He set her down but still she clung to him.

‘So are you.’ Her fingers moved to unfasten his wet jacket, his shirt.

‘You should dry yourself –’

‘I should?’

She gave a little shrug and the drenched gown slipped from her shoulders to the floor.

‘Fia…’ he whispered.